Skip to main content

Full text of "Evolution of expression"

See other formats



Digitized by the Internet Archive 

'iiff^i -,;;,? 


Evolution of Expression 

Charles Wesley Emerson 

Founder of Emerson College of Oratory 




In Four Volumes^ 'with Key to Each Chapter 



Published by 


Copyrighted by C. W. Emerson 

The Barta Press 



Slide .•«...•••.. 7 

Vital Slide .......... 8 

Slide in Volume ....•.•.. 9 

Forming PicTuaBS ......... 10 

Chapter I. 

Tact and Talent London Atlas 13 

Shylock to Antonio ... William Shakespeare 15 

The Cynic H. W. Beecher 16 

Good By, Pboud World ... B. W. Emerson 18 

The Destruction of Sennacherib . . Lord Byron 19 

Unwritten Music N. P. Willis 20 

Laus Mortis . . . Frederic Lawrence Knowles 23 

Taxation of the Colonies . . . Edmund Burke 24 

My Heart Leaps Up . . . William Wordsworth 29 

Forest Scene From As Tou Like It William Shakespeare 30 

Chapter II. 

The Rising in 1776 T. B. Bead 35 

The Tent-Scene Between Bru- 
tus AND Cassius . . William Shakespeare 39 
The Forging of the Anchor . . , 8. Ferguson 43 
Supposed Speech op John Adams . Daniel Webster 48 

Life and Song Sidney Lanier 53 

Gathering Song of Donald the Black Sir Walter Scott 54 



NuTTiKG William Wordsworth 55 

The Dodson Family George Eliot 58 

After the March Kain . . William Wordsworth 66 

Chapter III. 

First Battles of the Revolution . Edward Everett 67 

The Antiquity of Freedom . . . W. C. Byrant 70 

National Bankruptcy Mirabeau 73 

The Lantern Bearers . . Robert Louis Stevenson 14: 

Tarpeia Louise Imogen Guiney 78 

The Bells . » E. A. Poe 82 

The Temperance Question . . Wendell Phillips 86 

Sheridan's Ride T. B. Bead 89 

To a Pupil Walt Whitman 92 

Chapter IV. 

The Pickwickians on Ice . . , Charles Dickens 93 

The Realm of Fancy J. Keats 103 

The Battle of Naseby ... Lord Macaulay 106 

The Glories of Mornino . . . Edward Everett 109 

The Chambered Nautilus . . , O. W. Holmes 111 

Autumn . . . . . . . . H. W. Beecher 112 

Midsummer J. T. Trowbridge 116 

The Kitten and Falling Leaves William Wordsworth 118 

Summer Storm .... James Russell Lowell 121 

Jaques' Seven Ages of Man . William Shakespeare 125 



Love took up the harp of life and smote on all the chords with 

Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of 



The power to detach, and to magnify by detaching, is the 
essence of rhetoric in the hands of the orator and the poet. This 
rhetoric, or power to fix the momentary eminence of an object, 
so remarkable in Burke, in Byron, in Carlyle — depends upon the 
depth of the artist's insight of that object he contemplates. 


For use of selections in this volume especial 
thanks are tendered Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 
Frederic Lawrence Knowles, Horace Traubel, 
Secretary Walt Whitman Fellowship, and 
J. T. Trowbridge. 



Thus far in the student's development, his mind has dealt 
chiefly with each subject as a Whole. Now he begins to find a 
new interest in showing his hearers that the discourse is made 
up of a series of definite Parts. He takes delight in fixing their 
attention upon each part in succession. 

As in crossing a brook on stones, a person poises for a moment, 
first on one stone, then on another, so the speaker balances the 
minds of his hearers, first on one thought, then another, poising 
for a moment on each distinct point before leaving it for the 
next. The teacher should now lead the pupil to attract atten- 
tion to separate parts as wholes. We are entering the melo- 
dramatic stage, where abandon to each part is as necessary as it 
was in the beginning to the spirit of the whole. The pupil must 
see the parts and give them to others at any cost. 

In the history of art this step is marked by the grotesque ; the 
pupil should be encouraged to stand out the points of thought 
boldly, regardless of artistic effect. This step is of vital impor- 
tance in all future development, and unless emphasized now, will 
require constant effort hereafter. 

Sharp contrasts are brought strongly to bear in presenting 
vividly and distinctly separate points of thought. As the pupil 
earnestly strives to impress each point of thought, in all its new 
interest, his voice becomes more decidedly modulated, rising and 
faUing in distinct intervals. Thought of each part as a whole 
and by contrast, together with the desire to impart it, is reported 



in varied inflections which add a new charm to expression. 
Through slides the voice of the speaker may be said to express 
the tune of the thought. 

Analysis. Example: " Tact and Talent. " (Page 13.) 

Unit, or Whole : A comparison of Tact and Talent. 

Parts : 

(a) The characteristics of Tact. 

Sub-parts : 

1. Tact is infinitely resourceful. Paragraph 1, etc. 

2. Tact is the power which achieves results. Paragraph 2, etc. 

(Other "sub-parts '* may be enumerated.) 
(6) The characteristics of Talent. 

(A number of "sub-parts " are embodied.) 
The teacher should view the work of the pupil with special 
reference to the parts of this selection, leading him to impress 
these parts, or successive points of thought, upon his audience. 
The continued antithesis makes this selection a good one for the 
purpose ; parts that are set in contrast easily engage the 



As the mind of the pupil separates each thought from the 
other main thoughts of the discourse, and holds it before the 
minds of his hearers, he finds it more and more attractive. His 
endeavor to interest others deepens his own interest, and the 
sUdes in his voice report this increased concentration, in increased 
vitality. The pupil seeing the spirit and life of the whole in each 
vital part, or part vital to the life of the unit, desires to make 
each part live as a whole in the niinds of the listeners. |Ie no 


longer touches it with uncertain stroke ; the slide has become a 
Vital Slide. 

Analysis. Example: " The Rising of 1776. " (Page 35.) 
Unit, or Whole : A pastor of early Revolutionary times who 
makes his Sunday sermon an appeal for freedom. 
Parts : 

(a) The spirit of the times. Stanza 1. 

(b) The church and the people. Stanzas 2 and 3. 

(c) The pastor and his appeal. Stanzas 4, 5, 6 and part of 9. 

(d) The effect of the appeal. Stanzas 7, 8 and 9. 

Let the student's earnest endeavor be to interest his audience 
in these essential parts. The words which especially reveal 
these vital parts of the selection will be given with no uncertain 
stroke. If the interest of both speaker and Hstener is fully 
aroused, the slide has become a vital one. Remember always 
that the desired effect in the voice results from the mental con- 
cept ; it is not developed mechanically, but grows out of thought. 



As the mind of the student continues to dwell upon the parts 
of the subject as separate and distinct wholes, there is gradually 
developed within him an appreciation of the value of each part. 
Out of the effort to make each thought live in the minds of the 
hearers is bom the desire to reveal the value of that thought. 
This desire is reported in the voice through Slide in Volume. 

The significance of the term Volume has been explained in an 
earlier chapter. The valuable parts that the speaker presents 
are expressed through inflections that suggest breadth and 
freedom. Each part is felt to have a value of its own, intel- 
lectual, moralf estljetic, or spirituj^l? 


Freedom of will is expressed in the voice by slide in volume, 
for the speaker, convinced of the truth of his thought, is learning 
obedience to it, and obedience is always the way to freedom. 

It must be remembered that the intellect determines the value 
of the parts. It is true that the discernment is sharpened by 
the sensibility ; but the feelings, unguided by the thought, may 
be misleading. Feeling is dangerous unless controlled by 
thought. All sentiment must be directed to the audience 
"thought foremost " — the [thought itself must induce the 

Analysis. Example : * * The Bells. ' * (Page 82. ) 

Unit of thought]: Varied bells, expressing varied emotion. 

Parts : 

(a) The tinkling bells of Merriment. Stanza 1. 

(6) The mellow bells of Love. Stanza 2. 

(c) The clanging bells of Terror. Stanza 3. 

(d) The tolling bells of Menace. Stanza 4. 

This poem is well adapted to develop power in emphasizing 
parts : the several parts are very distinctly differentiated, as 
the student must reveal through the rendering. He should 
strive to reveal them as graphically as the author has set them 
forth. Moreover, he should endeavor to make their value felt. 
In doing this, he will perceive the varjring scale of values ; some 
of the bells reflect gi'eat value, others less. 



The student's persistent endeavor to impress the successive 
parts of his theme upon the minds in his presence will eventu- 
ally lead him to see those parts in picturesque groupings. As he 
flashes these pictures upon the mental vision of the audience, 


they become clearer to his own vision. His own power of imag- 
ery is in proportion to his ability to impart this power to others. 
Herein lies one of the most helpful means of cultivating the 
imagination, — the eye of the intellect, — the basis of all sym- 
pathy. Every effort to tell a story clearly so as to impress its 
details upon the minds of others, every attempt to picture a 
landscape, a meadow, a river, a sunset vividly to others, 
quickens and strengthens the pupil's own imaging power. His 
attempt to make his listeners put themselves in the place of 
another, see through the eyes and from the point of view of a 
Wordsworth or Shakespeare, quickens his own imagination, 
broadens his sympathies, and develops his intellect as nothing 
else can. * * The man of imagination has lived all lives, has enjoyed 
all heavens, and felt the pang of every hell. '* 

The student must continue to watch for the effect of his words 
in other minds. He cannot afford to be introspective while speak- 
ing, for the mind cannot be in the creative and in the critical 
state at the same time. The pictures, then, must be formed in 
the minds of the hearers ; they are the only canvas upon which 
he can hope to paint his picturesque parts. They are the mirror 
in which the pictures of his thought must be reflected, as the 
stars are mirrored in the waters of the lake. 

Analysis. Example : * * The Chambered Nautilus. ' ' (Page 111.) 

Unit, or Whole : The lesson of the Chambered Nautilus. 

Parts : 

(a) The Nautilus. Stanzas 1, 2. 

(6) Its method of growth. Stanza 3. 

(c) Its message to the soul. Stanzas 4, 5. 

Lead the pupil to present a clear picture of "the ship of 
pearl," of its own original environment and course of evolution, 
and of the beautiful figure which embodies the lesson. 




1. Talent is something, but tact is everything. Talent 
is serious, sober, grave, and respectable ; tact is all that, 
and more too. It is not a sixth sense, but it is the life 
of all the five. It is the open eye, the quick ear, the 
judging taste, the keen smell, and the lively touch ; it 
is the interpreter of all riddles, the surmounter of all 
difficulties, the remover of all obstacles. It is useful in 
all places, and at all times ; it is useful in solitude, for 
it shows a man his way into the world ; it is useful in 
society, for it shows him his way through the world. 

2. Talent is power, tact is skill ; talent is weight, tact 
is momentum ; talent knows what to do, tact knows how 
to do it ; talent makes a man respectable, tact will make 
him respected ; talent is wealth, tact is ready money. 

3. For all the practical purposes of life, tact carries 
it against talent, ten to one. Take them to the theatre, 



and put them against each other on the stage, and tal- 
ent shall produce you a tragedy that will scarcely live 
long enough to be condemned, while tact keeps the 
house in a roar, night after night, with its successful 
farces. There is no want of dramatic talent, there is no 
want of dramatic tact ; but they are seldom together : 
so we have successful pieces which are not respectable, 
and respectable pieces which are not successful. 

4. Take them to the bar, and let them shake their 
learned curls at each other in legal rivalry. Talent 
sees its way clearly, but tact is first at its journey's 
end. Talent has many a compliment from the bench, 
but tact touches fees from attorneys and clients. Tal- 
ent speaks learnedly and logically, tact triumphantly. 
Talent makes the world wonder that it gets on no 
faster, tact excites astonishment that it gets on so fast. 
And the secret is, that tact has no weight to carry ; it 
makes no false steps ; it hits the right nail on the head ; 
it loses no time ; it takes all hints ; and, by keeping its 
eye on the weathercock, is ready to take advantage of 
every wind that blows. 

5. Take them into the church. Talent has always 
something worth hearing, tact is sure of abundance of 
hearers ; talent may obtain a good living, tact will make 
one ; talent gets a good name, tact a great one ; talent 
convinces, tact converts ; talent is an honor to the pro- 
fession, tact gains honor from the profession. 

6. Place them in the senate. Talent has the ear of 

[Chap. I.] shylock: to antonio. 15 

the house, but tact wins its heart, and has its votes ; 
talent is fit for employment, but tact is fitted for it. 
Tact has a knack of slipping into place with a sweet 
silence and glibness of movement, as a billiard ball in- 
sinuates itself into the pocket. It seems to know every- 
thing, without learning anything. It has served an 
invisible and extemporary apprenticeship ; it wants no 
drilling ; it never ranks in the awkward squad ; it has 
no left hand, no deaf ear, no blind side. It puts on no 
looks of wondrous wisdom, it has no air of profundity, 
but plays with the details of place as dexterously as a 
well-taught hand flourishes over the keys of the piano- 
forte. It has all the air of commonplace, and all the 
force and power of genius. 

London Atlas. 


Signor Antonio, many a, time and oft 
In the Rialto you have rated me 
About my moneys and my usances : 
Still I have borne it with a patient shrug; 
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. 
You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, 
And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine. 
And all for use of that which is mine own. 
Well, then, it now appears, you need my help ; 
Go to, then ; you come to me, and you say — 


»* Shylock, we would have moneys." You say so; 
You that did void your rheum upon my beard, 
And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur 
Over your threshold ; moneys is your suit. 
What should I say to you ? Should I not say — 
" Hath a dog money? Is it possible 
A cur can lend three thousand ducats ? " or 
Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key, 
With bated breath and whispering humbleness, 
Say this — 

" Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last ; 
You spurned me such a day ; another time 
You called me dog ; and for these courtesies 
111 lend you thus much moneys I '* 



1. The Cynic is one who never sees a good quality in 
a man, and never fails to see a bad one. He is the 
human owl, vigilant in darkness and blind to light, 
mousing for vermin, and never seeing noble game. 

2. The Cynic puts all human actions into only two 
classes — openly bad and secretly bad. All virtue, 
and generosity, and disinterestedness, are merely the 
appearance of good, but selfish at the bottom. He holds 
that no man does a good thing except for profit. The 
effect of his conversation upon your feelings is to chill 
and sear them, to send you away sour and morose. 

[Chap. I.] THE CYNIC. IT 

3. His criticisms and innuendoes fall indiscriminately 
upon every lovely thing like frost upon the flowers. 
If Mr. A. is pronounced a religious man, he will reply : 
yes, on Sundays. Mr. B. has just joined the church : 
certainly, the elections are coming on. The minister 
of the gospel is called an example of diligence : it is his 
trade. Such a man is generous : of other men's money. 
This man is obliging : to lull suspicion and cheat you. 
That man is upright, because he is green. 

4. Thus his eye strains out every good quality, and 
takes in only the bad. To him religion is hypocrisy, 
honesty a preparation for fraud, virtue only a want of 
opportunity, and undeniable purity, asceticism. The 
livelong day he will coolly sit with sneering lip, trans- 
fixing every character that is presented. 

5. It is impossible to indulge in such habitual sever- 
ity of opinion upon our fellow-men, without injuring 
the tenderness and delicacy of our own feelings. A 
man will be what his most cherished feelings are. If 
he encourage a noble generosity, every feeling will be 
enriched by it ; if he nurse bitter and envenomed 
thoughts, his own spirit will absorb the poison, and he 
will crawl among men as a burnished adder, whose life 
is mischief, and whose errand is death. 

6. He who hunts for flowers will find flowers ; and 
he who loves weeds will find weeds. 

Let it be remembered that no man, who is not him- 
self morally diseased, will have a relish for disease in 


others. Reject, then, the morbid ambition of the Cynic, 
or cease to call yourself a man. 

H. W. Beeoher. 


Good by, proud world I I'm going home ; 

Thou'rt not my friend, and I'm not thine. 
Long through the weary crowds I roam, 

A river-ark on the ocean brine. 
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam 
And now, proud world, I'm going home. 


Good by to Flattery's fawning face ; 
To Grandeur, with his wise grimace ; 
To upstart Wealth's averted eye ; 
To supple Office, low and high ; 
To crowded halls, to court and street ; 
To frozen hearts and hasting feet ; 
To those who go and those who come ; 
Good by, proud world ! I'm going home. 


I am going to my own hearthstone. 
Bosomed in yon green hills alone — 
A secret nook in a pleasant land. 
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned, — ^ 


Where arches green, the livelong day, 
Echo the blackbird's roundelay, 
And vulgar feet have never trod, — 
A spot that is sacred to thought and God 


O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome ; 
And when I am stretched beneath the pines 
Where the evening star so holy shines, 
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, 
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; 
For what are they all, in their high conceit. 
When man in the bush with God may meet ? 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea 
Where the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green. 
That host with, their banners at sunset were seen ; 
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strewn. 




For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still. 


And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride ; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 


And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 

LoED Byeon. 


1. There is unwritten music. The world is full of 
it. I hear it every hour that I wake ; and my waking 
sense is surpassed sometimes by my sleeping, though 


that is a mystery. There is no sound of simple nature 
that is not music. It is all God's work, and so harmony. 
You may mingle, and divide, and strengthen the pas- 
sages of its great anthem ; and it is still melody, — 

2. The low winds of summer blow over the water- 
falls and the brooks, and bring their voices to your ear, 
as if their sweetness were linked by an accurate finger ; 
yet the wind is but a fitful player ; and you may go out 
when the tempest is up and hear the stronp" trees moan- 
ing as they lean before it, and the long grass hissing as 
it sweeps through, and its own solemn monotony over 
all ; and the dripple of that same brook, and the water- 
fall's unaltered bass shall still reach you, in the inter- 
vals of its power, as much in harmony as before, and as 
much a part of its perfect and perpetual hymn. 

3. There is no accident of nature's causing which 
can bring in discord. The loosened rock may fail into 
the abyss, and the overblown tree rush down through 
the branches of the wood, and the thunder peal awfully 
in the sky; and sudden and violent as their changes 
seem, their tumult goes up with the sound of wind and 
waters, and the exquisite ear of the musician can detect 
no jar. 

4. I have read somewhere of a custom in the High- 
lands, which, in connection with the principle it involves, 
is exceedingly beautiful. It is believed that, to the ear 
of the dying (which just before death becomes always 


exquisitely acute,) the perfect harmony of the voices of 
natui*e is so ravishing, as to make him forget his suffer- 
ing, and die gently, as in a pleasant trance. And so, 
when the last moment approaches, they take him from 
the close shieling, and bear him out into the open sky, 
that he may hear the familiar rushing of the streams. 
I can believe that is not superstition. I do not think 
we know how exquisitely nature's many voices are 
attuned to harmony and to each other. 

5. The old philosopher we read of might not have 
been dreaming when he discovered that the order of the 
sky was like a scroll of written music, and that two stars 
(which are said to have appeared centuries after his 
death, in the very places he mentioned) were wanting 
to complete the harmony. We know how wonderful 
are the phenomena of color, how strangely like consum- 
mate art the strongest dyes are blended in the plumage 
of birds, and in the cups of flowers ; so that, to the 
practiced eye of the painter, the harmony is inimitably 

6. It is natural to suppose every part of the universe 
equally perfect; and it is a glorious and elevating 
thought, that the stars of Heaven are moving on con- 
tinually to music, and that the sounds we daily listen 
to are but part of a melody that reaches to the very 
centre of God's illimitable spheres. 

N. P. Willis. 



Nay, why should I fear Death, 

Who gives us life and in exchange takes breath ? 

He is like cordial Spring 

That lifts above the soil each buried thing ; — 


Like Autumn, kind and brief 

The frost that chills the branches, frees the leaf. 

Like Winter's stormy hours. 

That spread their fleece of snow to save the flowers. 


The loveliest of all things — 

Life lends us only feet, Death gives us wings I 

Fearing no covert thrust, 

Let me walk onward armed with valiant trust. 


Dreading no unseen knife. 

Across Death's threshold step from life to life I 

Oh, all ye frightened folk. 

Whether ye wear a crown or bear a yoke, 


Laid in one equal bed, 

When once your coverlet of grass is spread, 

What daybreak need you fear ? 

The love will rule you there which guides jrou here I 



Where Life, the Sower, stands. 

Scattering the ages from his swinging hands, 

Thou waitest, Reaper lone, 

Until the multitudinous grain hath grown. 


Scythe-bearer, when thy blade 

Harvest my flesh, let me be unafraid ! 

God's husbandman thou art ! 

In His un withering sheaves, oh, bind my heart. 

Frederic Lawrence Knowles. 


1. Sir : I agree with the honorable gentleman who 
spoke last, that this subject is not new to this House. 
Very disagreeably to this House, very unfortunately to 
this nation, and to the peace and prosperity of this 
whole empire, no topic has been more familiar to us. 
For nine long years, session after session, we have been 
lashed round and round this miserable circle of occa- 
sional arguments and temporary expedients. 

2. I am sure our heads must turn and our stomachs 
nauseate with them. We have had them in every 
shape. We have looked at them in every point of view. 
Invention is exhausted ; reason is fatigued ; experience 
has given judgment ; but obstinacy is not yet conquere4. 


3. The act of 1767, which grants this tea-duty, sets 
forth in its preamble, that it was expedient to raise a 
revenue in America for the support of the civil govern- 
ment there, as well as for purposes still more extensive. 
About two years after this act was passed, the ministry 
thought it expedient to repeal five of the duties, and to 
leave (for reasons best known to themselves) only the 
sixth standing. 

4o But I hear it rung continually in my ears, now 
and formerly, — " The preamble ! what will become of 
the preamble if you repeal this tax ? " The clerk will 
be so good as to turn to this act, and to read this favor- 
ite preamble. 

5. " Whereas it is expedient that a revenue should 
be raised in your Majesty's dominions in America, for 
making a more certain and adequate provision for de- 
fraying the charge of the administration of justice and 
support of civil government in such provinces where it 
shall be found necessary, and towards further defray- 
ing the expenses of defending, protecting, and securing 
the said dominions." 

6. You have heard this pompous performance. 
Now, where is the revenue which is to do all these 
mighty things ? Five-sixths repealed, — abandoned, — 
sunk, — gone, — lost forever. Does the poor solitary 
tea-duty support the purposes of this preamble ? Is not 
the supply there stated as effectually abandoned as if 
the tea-duty had perished in the general wreck ? Here, 


Mr. Speaker, is a precious mockery : — a preamble 
without an act, — taxes granted in order to be repealed, 
— and the reason of the grant carefully kept up ! This 
is raising a revenue in America I This is preserving 
dignity in England ! 

7. Never did a people suffer so much for the empty 
words of a preamble. It must be given up. For on 
what principle does it stand? This famous revenue 
stands, at this hour, on all the debate, as a description 
of revenue not as yet known in all the comprehensive 
(but too comprehensive!) vocabulary of finance — a 
preambulary tax. It is, indeed, a tax of sophistry, a 
tax of pendantry, a tax of disputation, a tax of war and 
rebellion, a tax for anything but benefit to the imposers 
or satisfaction to the subject. 

8. Weill but whatever it is, gentlemen will force 
the colonists to take the teas. You will force them ? 
Has seven years' struggle been yet able to force them ? 
Gh, but it seems "we are in the right. The tax is 
trifling, — in effect rather an exoneration than an impo- 
sition; three-fourths of the duty formerly payable on 
teas exported to America is taken off, — the place of 
collection is only shifted ; instead of the retention of a 
shilling from the drawback here, it is three-pence custom 
paid in America." 

9. All this, sir, is very true. But this is the very 
folly and mischief of the act. Incredible as it may 
i^eem, you know that you have deliberately throwi; 


away a large duty, whicli you held secure and quiet in 
your hands, for the vain hope of getting one three- 
fourths less, through every hazard, through certain liti- 
gation, and possibly through war. 

10. Could anything be a subject of more just alarm 
to America, than to see you go out of the plain high- 
road of finance, and give up your most certain revenues 
and your clearest interest, merely for the sake of in- 
sulting the colonies ? No man ever doubted that the 
commodity of tea could bear an imposition of three 
pence. But no commodity will bear three pence, or 
will bear a penny, when the general feelings of men 
are irritated, and two millions of people are resolved 
not to pay. 

11. The feelings of the colonies were formerly the 
feelings of Great Britain. Theirs were formerly the 
feelings of Mr. Hampden, when called upon for the pay- 
ment of twenty shillings. Would twenty shillings 
have ruined Mr. Hampden's fortune? No! but the 
payment of half twenty shillings, on the principle it 
was demanded, would have made him a slave. It is 
the weight of that preamble, of which you are so fond, 
and not the weight of the duty, that the Americans are 
unable and unwilling to bear. 

12. It is, then, sir, upon the principle of this meas- 
ure, and nothing else, that we are at issue. It is a 
principle of political expediency. Your act of 1767 as- 
serts that it is expedient to raise a revenue in America ; 


your act of 1769, which takes away that revenue, con- 
tradicts the act of 1767, and by something much 
stronger than words, asserts that it is not expedient. 
It is a reflection upon your wisdom to persist in a sol- 
emn parliamentary declaration of the expediency of 
any object, for which, at the same time, you make no 

13. And pray, sir, let not this circumstance escape 
you, — it is very material, — that the preamble of this 
act which we wish to repeal, is not declarc-tory of a 
right, as some gentlemen seem to argue it : it is only 
a recital of the expediency of a certain exercise of right 
supposed already to have been asserted ; an exercise 
you are now contending for by ways and means which 
you confess, though they were obeyed, to be utterly 
insufficient for their purpose. You are, therefore, at 
this moment in the awkward situation of fighting for a 
phantom, — a quiddity, — a thing that wants not only 
a substance, but even a name, — for a thing which is 
neither abstract right nor profitable enjoyment. 

14. They tell you, sir, that your dignity is tied to it. 
I know not how it happens, but this dignity of yours is 
a terrible incumbrance to you ; for it has of late been 
ever at war with your interest, your equity, and every 
idea of your policy. Show the thing you contend for 
to be reason, show it to be common sense, show it to 
be the means of attaining some useful end, and then 
I am content to allow it what dignity you please. But 

[Chap. I.] MY HEART LEAPS UP. 29 

what dignity is derived from the perseverance in ab 
surdity is more than ever I could discern. 

15. The honorable gentleman has said well, that 
this subject does not stand as it did formerly. Oh, cer- 
tainly not ! Every hour you continue on this ill-chosen 
ground, your difficulties thicken around you ; and there- 
fore my conclusion is, remove from a bad position as 
quickly as you can. The disgrace, and the necessity 
of yielding, both of them, grow upon you every hour of 
your delay. 

Edmund Bueke. 


My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky : 
So was it when my life began, 
So is it now I am a man, 
So be it when I shall grow old 

Or let me die ! 
The Child is father of the Man : 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 



Act III. Scene II. 

Bos, \^Aside to €elia.'\ I will speak to him like a 
saucy lackey and under that habit play the knave with 
him. Do you hear, forester? 

OrL Very well : what would you ? 

Bos, I pray you, what is't o'clock ? 

Orl, You should ask me what time o' day : there's 
no clock in the forest. 

Bos, Then there is no true lover in the forest ; else 
sighing every minute and groaning every hour would 
detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock. 

Orl, And why not the swift foot of Time ? had not 
that been as proper ? 

Bos, By no means, sir : Time travels in divers paces 
with divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles 
withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, 
and who he stands still withal. 

Orl. I prithee, who doth he trot withal ? 

Bos, Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between 
the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemniz'd ; 
if the interim be but a se'nnight. Time's pace is so 
hard that it seems the length of seven years. 

Orl, Who ambles Time withal ? 

Bos. With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man 
that hath not the gout, for the one sleeps easily because 
he cannot study, and the other lives meriily because he 

[Chap. I.] AS YOTJ LIKE IT. 31 

feels no pain, the one lacking the burden of lean and 
wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden of 
heavy tedious penury ; these Time ambles withal. 

OrL Who doth he galop withal ? 

Ros. With a thief to the gallows ; for though he go 
as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon 

OrL Who stays it still withal? 

Ros. With lawyers in the vacation ; for they sleep 
between term and term, aud then they perceive not how 
Time moves. 

Orl. Where dwell you, pretty youth ? 

Ros, With this shepherdess, my sister ; here in the 
skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat. 

Orl, Are you native of this place? 

Ros. As the cony that you see dwell where she is 

Orl. Your accent is something finer than you could 
purchase in so remcv'd a dwelling. 

Ros. I have been told so of many : but indeed an old 
religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in 
his youth an inland man ; one that knew courtship too 
well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read 
many lectures against it, and I thank God I am not a 
woman, to be touch'd with so many giddy offences as 
he hath generally tax'd their whole sex withal. 

Orl. Can you remember any of the principal evils 
laid to the charge of women ? 


Ros, There were none principal ; they were all like 
one another as half-pence are, every one fault seeming 
monstrous till his fellow-fault came to match it. 

Orl, I prithee, recount some of them. 

Ros. No, I will not cast away my physic but on those 
that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest, that 
abuses our young plants with carving Rosalind on their 
barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies on 
brambles, all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind : 
if I could meet that fancy-monger, I would give him 
some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian 
of love upon him. 

Orl, I am he that is so love-shak'd : I pray you, tell 
me your remedy. 

Ros. There is none of my uncle's marks upon you : 
he taught me how to know a man in love ; in which 
cage of rushes, I am sure, you are not prisoner. 

Orl. What were his marks ? 

Ros. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue 
eye, and sunken, which you have not; an unquestion- 
able spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, 
which you have not; but I pardon you for that, 
for simply your having in beard is a younger 
brother's revenue: then your hose should be un- 
garter'd, your bonnet unhanded, your sleeve un- 
button'd, your shoe unti'd and every thing about you 
demonstrating a careless desolation; but you are 
no such man; you are rather point-device in your 

[Chap. I.] AS YOU LIKE IT. 33 

accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming the 
lover of any other. 

Orl, Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe 
I love. 

Ros, Me believe it? you may as soon make her that 
you love believe it ; which, I warrant, she is apter to do 
than to confess she does : that is one of the points in 
the which women still give the lie to their consciences. 
But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on 
the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired ? 

Orl, I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of 
Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he. 

Bos, But are you so much in love as your rhymes 
speak ? 

Orl. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how 

Ros. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, 
deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen 
do ; and the reason why they are not so punish'd and 
cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers 
are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel. 

OrL Did you ever cure any so ? 

Ros, Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to 
imagine me his love, his mistress ; and I set him every 
day to woo me : at which time would I, being but a 
moonish youth, be effeminate, changeable, longing and 
liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, 
full of tears, full of smiles, for every passion something 


and for no passion truly any thing, as boys and women 
are for the most part cattle of this colour ; would now 
like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then 
forswear him ; now weep for him, then spit at him ; that 
I drave mv suitor from his mad humour of love to a 
living humour of madness ; which was, to forswear the 
full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely 
monastic. And thus I cur'd him ; and this way will I 
take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound 
sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love 

Orl. I would not be cured, youth. 

Hos. I would cure you, if you would but call me 
Rosalind, and come every day to my cote and woo me. 

OrL Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell 
me where it is. 

Hos, Go with me to it, and I'll show it you : and by 
the way you shall tell me where in the forest you live. 
Will you go? 

Orl, With all my heart, good youth. 

Bos. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, 
will you go ? 




Out of the north, t£e wild news camcs 

Far flashing on its wings of flame, - a 4^ 

Swift as the boreal light which flies f \ ' /^ *• 

At midnight through the startled skies. 

And there was tumult in the air, 

The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beats 
And through the wide land everywhere 

The answering tread of hurrying feet 1 
While the first oath of Freedom^s gun 
Came on the blast from Lexington ; 
And Concord, roused, no longer tame. 
Forgot her old baptismal name. 
Made bare her patriot arm of power, 
And swelled the discord of the hour. 



Within its shade of elm and oak 

The church of Berkley Manor stood; 
There Sunday found the rural folk, 

And some esteemed of gentle blood. 

In vain their feet with loitering tread 
Passed 'mid the graves where rank is naught; 
All could not read the lesson taught 

In that republic of the dead. 


How SLweet the hour of Sabbath talk, 
The vale with peace and sunshine full 

Where all the happypeople walk, 

Decked in their homespun flax and wool I 
Where j^outh's gay hats with blossoms bloom. 

And every maid with simple art, 

Wears on her breast, like her own heart, 
A bud whose depths are all perfume ; 

While every garment's gentle stir 

Is breathing rose and lavender. 



The pastor^ came ; his snowy locks ' • 

HalTowed his brow of thought and carej //v 
And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks. 

He led into the house of prayer. . ; 

The pastor rose ; the prayer was strong j y ijiA 
The psalm was warrior David's song ; ;^ ' ' 
The text, a few short words of might, — 
" The Lord of hosts shall arm the right I *' 

[Chap. II.] THE RISING IN 1776. 81 

He spoke of wrongs too long endured. 
Of sacred rights to be secured ; 
Then from Kis patriot tongue of flame 
The startling words for Freedom came» 
The stirring sentences he spake, 
Compelled the heart to glow or quake. 
And, rising on his theme's broad wing. 
And grasping in his nervous hand 
The imaginary battle-brand. 
In face of death he dared to fling 
Defiance to a tyrant king. 


Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed 
In eloquence of attitude, 
Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher ; 
Then swept his kindling glance of fire 
From startled pew to breathless choir ; 
When suddenly his mantle wide 
His hands impatient flung aside. 
And, lo 1 he met their wondering eyes 
Complete in all a warrior's guise. 


A moment there was awful pause, — 
When Berkley cried, " Cease, traitor I cease I 
God's temple is the house of peace ! ** 

The other shouted, " Nay, not so. 
When God is with our righteous cause ; 


His holiest places then are ours, 
His temples are our forts and towers. 

That frown upon the tyrant foe ; 
In this, the dawn of Freedom's day, 
There is a time to fight and pray 1 '* 


And now before the open door — 

The warrior priest had ordered so — 
The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar 
Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er. 

Its long reverberating blow. 
So loud and clear, it seemed the ear 
Of dusty death must wake and hear. 
And there the startling drum and fife 
Fired the living with fiercer life ; 
While overhead, with wild increase, 
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace, 

The great bell swung as ne'er before : 
It seemed as it would never cease ; 
And every word its ardor flung 
From off its jubilant iron tongue 

Was, " War I War ! War ! '* 


« Who dares " — this was the patriot's cry,. 
As striding from the desk he came, -^ — 

" Come out with me, in Freedom's name 
For her to live, for her to die ? " 
A hundred hands flung up reply, 
A hundred voices answered "II*' 

T. B. Read. 



Cassius. That you have wronged me doth appear 
in this : 
You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella, 
For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; 
Wherein, my letters (praying on his side, 
Because I knew the man) were slighted off. 

Bkutus. You wronged yourself, to write in such a 

Cas. At such a time as this, it is not meet 
That every nice offence should bear its comment, 

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself 
Are much condemned to have an itching palm ; 
To sell and mart your offices for gold, 
To undeservers. 

Cas. I an itching palm ? 
You know that you are Brutus that speak this, 
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. 

Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption, 
And chastisement doth therefore hide its head. 

Cas. Chastisement ? 

Brtj. Remember March, the ides of March re- 
member ! 
Did not great Julius bleed for justice's sake ? 
What villain touched his body, that did stab, 
And not for justice? — What I shall one of us, 
That struck the foremost man of all this world. 
But for supporting robbers ; — shall we now 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes ? 
And sell the mighty space of our large honors 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus? — 


I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, } 

Than such a Roman. 

Cas. Brutus, bay not me : 
I'll not endure it. You forget yourself, 
To hedge me in : I am a soldier, I, 
Older in practice, abler than yourself 
To make conditions. 

Bru. Go to ; you're not, Cassius. 

Cas. I am. 

Bru. I say you are not. 

Cas. Urge me no more : I shall forget myself: 
Have mind upon your health : tempt me no further. 

Bru. Away, slight man I 

Cas. Is't possible I 

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. 
Must I give way and room to your rash choler? 
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? 

Cas. Must I endure all this ? 

Bru. All this ? Ay, more I Fret till your proud 
heart break. 
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, 
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? 
Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch 
Under your testy humor ? 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 
Though it do split you : for, from this day forth, 
I'll use you for my mirth ; yea, for my laughter, 
When you are waspish. 

Cas. Is it come to this ? 

Bru. You say you are a better soldier ; 
Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true. 
And it shall please me well. For mine own part, 
I 3hall be glad to learn of noble men* 


Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, 
Brutus ; 
I said an elder soldier, not a better. 
Did I say better? 

Bru. If you did I care not. 

Cas. When Csesar lived, he durst not thus have 
moved me. 

Bru. Peace, peace ! you durst not so have tempted 
him ! 

Cas. I durst not? 

Bru. No. 

Cas. What I Durst not tempt him? 

Bru. For your life you durst not. 

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love ; 
I may do that I shall be sorry for. 

Bru. You have done that which you should be 
sorry for. 
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats I 
For I am armed so strong in honesty, 
That they pass by me as the idle wind, 
Which I respect not. I did send to you 
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me : — 
For I can raise no money by vile means : 
I had rather coin my heart, 
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring 
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash 
By any indirection. I did send 
To you for gold to pay my legions ; \ 

Which you denied me. 
Was that done like Cassius ? 
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so? 
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 
To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 


Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts ; 
Dash him to pieces I 

Cas. I denied you not. 

Bru. You did. 

Cas. I did not : He was but a fool 
That brought my answer back. — Brutus hath rived my 

A friend should bear a friend's infirmities ; 
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 

Brd". I do not, till you practice them on me. 

Cas. You love me not. 

Bru. I do not like your faults. 

Cas. a friendly eye could never see such faults. 

Bru. a flatterer's would not, though they do ap- 
As huge as high Olympus. 

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come ! 
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius : 
For Cassius is a- weary of the world — 
Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; 
Checked like a bondman ; all his faults observed. 
Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by rote, 
To cast into my teeth. 

0, I could weep 

My spirit from my eyes I — There is my dagger, 
And here my naked breast ; within, a heart 
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold : 
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth: 

1, that denied thee gold, will give my heart. 
Strike, as thou didst at Caesar ; for I know. 

Then thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him 

Than ever thou lovedst Cassius, 


Beu. Sheath your dagger ; 
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope : 
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. 
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb. 
That carries anger, as the flint bears fire ; 
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
And straight is cold again. 

Cas. Hath Cassius lived 
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him? 

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. 

Cas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand 

Beu. And my heart, too. 

Cas. O Brutus ! 

Bru. What's the matter ? 

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me. 
When that rash humor which my mother gave me. 
Makes me forgetful ? 

Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and from henceforth. 
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. 



Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 'tis at a white 

heat now ; 
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on 

the forge's brow 


The little flames still fitfully play through the sable 
mound ; 

And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking 

All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only 
bare ; 

Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the wind- 
lass there. 


The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound 

heaves below. 
And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every 

throe ; 
It rises, roars, rends all outright — O Vulcan, what a 

glow ! 
'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright ; the high sun 

shines not so : 
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful 



The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, 

lurid row 
Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before 

the foe ; 
As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing 

monster slow 
Sinks on the anvil — all about the faces fiery grow — 
" Hurrah ! " they shout — " leap out ! — leap out ! " 

bang, bang, the sledges go. 



Leap out, leap out, my masters I leap out and lay on 

load ! 
Let's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and 

For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, 
And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous 

road ; 
The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean 

From stem to stern, sea after sea, the main-mast by the 

board ; 


The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove 

at the chains ; 
But courage still, brave mariners, the bower yet 

And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch 

Then moves his head, as though he said, " Fear nothing 

— here am II" 


Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep 

Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's 

chime ; 
But while ye swing your sledges, sing, and let the 

burden be. 
The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we. 



Strike in, strike in ; the sparks begin to dull their rust- 
ling red ; 

Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon 
be sped ; 

Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery, rich 

For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch 
of clay ; 

Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry crafts- 
men here. 

For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave away, and the sigh- 
ing seaman's cheer. 


In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last, 
A shapely one he is and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. 
A trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou had'st life like 

What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the 

deep-green sea I 


O deep-sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as 

thou ? 
The hoary monster's palaces ! methinks what joy 'twere 

To go plump, plunging down amid the assembly of the 

And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their 

scourging tails I 


Then deep in tangle woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn, 
And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his 

ivory horn ; 
To leave the subtle sworder-fish, of bony blade forlorn, 
And for the ghastly grinning shark, to laugh his jaws 

to scorn. 


O broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can 

equal thine ? 
The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy 

cable line ; 
And night by night *tis thy delight, thy glory day by 

Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game 

to play ; 
But, shamer of our little sports, forgive the name I gave ; 
A fisher*s joy is to destroy — thine office is to save. 


O lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but un- 

Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that 
dripping band, 

Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about 
thee bend, 

With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their 
ancient friend ; 

O couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger 
steps round thee. 

Thine iron side would swell with pride, thou'dst leap 
within the sea ! 



Give honor to their memories, who left the pleasant 

To shed their blood so freely for the love of Father- 
land — 
Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church- 
yard grave 
So freely for a restless bed amid the tossing wave — 
O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, 
Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes 
among I 

S. Ferguson. 


1. Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give 
my hand and my heart to this vote. It is true, indeed, 
that in the beginning we aimed not at independence. 
But there's a divinity which shapes our ends. The 
injustice of England has driven us to arms ; and, blinded 
to her own interest for our good, she has obstinately 
persisted, till independence is now within our grasp. 
We have but to reach forth to it, and it is ours. Why, 
then, should we defer the Declaration ? 

2. Is any man so weak as now to hope for a recon- 
ciliation with England, which shall leave either safety 
to the country and its liberties, or safety to his own 
life and his own honor? Are not you, sir, who sit in 
that chair, is not he, our venerable colleague near you, 


are you not both already the prescribed and predestined 
objects of punishment and of vengeance ? Cut off from 
all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you 
be, while the power of England remains, but outlaws ? 

3. If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry 
on or give up the war ? Do we mean to submit to the 
measures of Parliament, Boston Port Bill, and all? 
Do we mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves 
shall be ground to powder, and our country and its 
rights trodden down in the dust? 

4. I know we do not mean to submit. We never 
shall submit. Do we intend to violate that most solemn 
obligation ever entered into by men, that plighting be- 
fore God, of our sacred honor to Washington, when, 
putting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well 
as the political hazards of the times, we promised to 
adhere to him, in every extremity, with our fortunes 
and our lives ? 

6. I know there is not a man here, who would not 
rather see a general conflagration sweep over the land, 
or an earthquake sink it, than one jot or tittle of that 
plighted faith fall to the ground. For myself, having, 
twelve months ago, in this place, moved you that 
George Washington be appointed commander of the 
forces raised, or to be raised, for the defence of Ameri- 
can liberty, may my right hand forget her cunning, and 
my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate 
or waver in the support I give him. 


6. The war, then, must go on. We must fight it 
through. And if the war must go on, why put off longer 
the Declaration of Independence ? That measure will 
strengthen us. It will give us character abroad. The 
nations will then treat with us, which they never can 
do while we acknowledge ourselves subjects in arms 
against our sovereign. Nay, I maintain that England 
herself will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing 
of independence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to 
acknowledge that her whole conduct towards us has 
been a course of injustice and oppression. 

7. Her pride will be less wounded by submitting to 
that course of things which now predestinates our inde- 
pendence, than by yielding the points in controversy to 
her rebellious subjects. The former she would regard 
as the result of fortune ; the latter she would feel as her 
own deep disgrace. Why then, why then, sir, do we 
not as soon as possible change this from a civil to a 
national war ? And since we must fight it through, why 
not put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of 
victory, if we gain the victory ? 

8. If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we 
shall not fail. The cause will raise up armies; the 
cause will create navies. The people, the people, if we 
are true to them, will carry us, and will carry them- 
selves, gloriously through this struggle. I care not how 
fickle other people have been found. I know the peo- 
ple of these colonies, and I know that resistance to 


British aggression is deep and settled in their hearts, 
and cannot be eradicated. Every colony, indeed, has ex- 
pressed its willingness to follow, if we but take the lead. 

9. Sir, the Declaration will inspire the people with 
increased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war 
for the restoration of privileges, for redress of griev- 
ances, for chartered immunities held under a British king, 
set before them the glorious object of entire independ- 
ence and it will breathe into them anew the breath of life. 

10. Bead this Declaration at the head of the army; 
ever}'- sword will be drawn from its scabbard, and the 
solemn vow uttered, to maintain it, or to perish on the 
bed of honor. Publish it from the pulpit ; religion will 
approve it, and the love of religious liberty will cling 
round it, resolved to stand with it, or fall with it. 
Send it to the public halls ; proclaim it there ; let them 
hear it who heard the first roar of the enemy's cannon ; 
let them see it who saw their brothers and their sons 
fall on the field of Bunker Hill, and in the streets of 
Lexington and Concord, and the very walls will cry out 
in its support. 

11. Sir, 1 know the uncertainty of human affairs, but 
I see, I see clearly through this day's business. You 
and I, indeed, may rue it. We may not live to the time 
when this Declaration shall be made good. We may 
die ; die colonists ; die slaves ; die, it may be, ignomini- 
ously, and on the scaffold. Be it so. Be it so. If it 
be the pleasure of Heaven that my country shall require 


the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready 
at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour 
may. But while I do live, let me have a country, or at 
least the hope of a country, and that a free country. 

12. But whatever may be our fate, be assured, be 
assured that this Declaration will stand. It may cost 
treasure and it may cost blood ; but it will stand, and 
it will richly compensate for both. Through the thick 
gloom of the present, I see the brightness of the future 
as the sun in heaven. We shall make this a glorious, 
an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our 
children will honor it. They will celebrate it with 
thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, and illumi- 
nations. On its annual return, they will shed tears, 
copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and slavery, 
not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of grati- 
tude, and of joy. 

13. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My 
judgment approves this measure, and my whole heart 
is in it. All that I have, and all that I am, and all that 
I hope in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon 
it ; and I leave off as I began, that, live or die, survive 
or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my living 
sentiment, and by the blessing of God it shall be my 
dying sentiment, — independence now, and independ- 
ence forevee! 

Daniel Webster. 

[Chap. II.] LIFE AND SONG. 63 


If life were caught by a clarionet, 

And a wild heart throbbing in the reed. 

Should thrill its joy and trill its fret, 
And utter its heart in every deed, 


Then would this breathing clarionet 
Type what the poet fain would be ; 

For none o' the singers ever yet 
Has wholly lived his minstrelsy ; 


Or clearly sung his true, true thought ; 

Or utterly bodied forth his life, 
Or out of life and song has wrought 

The perfect one of man and wife i 


Or lived and sung, that Life and Song 
Might each express the other's all. 

Careless if life or art were long 

Since both were one, to stand or fall: 


So that the wonder struck the crowd. 
Who shouted it about the land : 

His song was only living aloud. 

His work, a singing with his hand ! 

Sidney Lanier. 




Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 

Pibroch of Donuil 
Wake thy wild voice anew, 

Summon Clan Conuil. 
Come away, come away, 

Hark to the summons I 
Come in your war-array, 

Gentles and commons. 


Come from deep glen, and 

From mountain so rocky ; 
The war-pipe and pennon 

Are at Inverlocky. 
Come every hill-plaid, and 

True heart that wears one. 
Come every steel blade, and 

Strong hand that bears one. 


Leave untended the herd, 

The flock without shelter 5 
Leave the corpse uninterr'd, 

The bride at the altar ; 
Leave the deer, leave the steer. 

Leave nets and barges : 
Come with your fighting gear, 

Broadswords and targes. 

[Chap. 11. 3 NUTTING. 55 


Come as the winds come, when 

Forests are rended, 
Come as the waves come, when 

Navies are stranded : 
Faster come, faster come, 

Faster and faster. 
Chief, vassal, page and groom, 

Tenant and master. 


Fast they come, fast they come ; 

See how they gather I 
Wide waves the eagle plume 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 

Forward each man set I 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 

Knell for the onset I 

Sib WALTiSR Scott. 



It seems a day 
(I speak of one from many singled out) 
One of those heavenly days that cannot die ; 
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 
I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth 
With 9> huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, 


A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps 
Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint, 
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds 
Which for that service had been husbanded, 
By exhortation of my frugal Dame — 
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, — and, in truth, 
More ragged than need was ! 


O'er pathless rocks, 
Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets, 
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook 
Unvisited, where not a broken bough 
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign 
Of devastation ; but the hazels rose 
Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, 
A virgin scene I — A little while I stood. 
Breathing with such suppression of the heart 
As joy delights in ; and, with wise restraint 
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 
The banquet ; — or beneath the trees I sate 
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played; 
A temper known to those, who, after long 
And weary expectation, have been blest 
With sudden happiness beyond all hope. 


Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves 
The violets of five seasons re-appear 
And fade, unseen by any human eye^ 

[Chap. II.] NUTTING. 67 

Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 
Forever ; and I saw the sparkling foam, 
And — with my cheek on one of those green stones 
That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, 
Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep — 
I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, 
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay 
Tribute to ease ; and, of its joy secure, 
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, 
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, 
And on the vacant air. 


Then up I rose, 
And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash 
And merciless ravage; and the shady nook 
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, 
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 
Their quiet being : and, unless I now 
Confound my present feelings with the past ; 
Ere from the mutilated bower I turned 
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky — 
Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades 
In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand 
Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods. 

William Woedsworth. 



From Mill on the Floss. 

Part I. 

1. The Dodsons were certainly a handsome family, 
and Mrs. Glegg was not the least handsome of the 
sisters. As she sat in Mrs. Tulliver's arm-chair, no 
impartial observer could have denied that for a woman 
of fifty she had a very comely face and figure. It is 
true she despised the advantages of costume, for though, 
as she often observed, no woman had better clothes, it 
was not her way to wear her new things out before her 
old ones. Other women, if they liked, might have 
their best thread-lace in every wash ; but when Mrs. 
Glegg died, it would be found that she had better lace 
laid by in the right-hand drawer of her wardrobe, in 
the Spotted Chamber, than ever Mrs. Wooll of St. Ogg's 
had bought in her life, although Mrs. Wooll wore her 
l^ce before it was paid for. 

2. So of her curled fronts ; to look out on the week- 
day world from under a crisp and glossy front, would 
be to introduce a most dreamlike and unpleasant con- 
fusion between the sacred and the secular. Occasion- 
ally, indeed, Mrs. Glegg wore one of her third-best 
fronts on a week-day visit, but not at a sister's house ; 
especially not at Mrs. TuUiver's, who, since her 
marriage, had hurt her sisters' feelings greatly by 
wearing her own hair. But Bessy was always weak I 


3. So if Mrs. Glegg's front to-day was more fuzzy 
and lax than usual, she had a design under it : she in- 
tended the most pointed and cutting allusion to Mrs. 
Tulliver's bunches of blond curls, separated from each 
other by a due wave of smoothness on each side of the 
parting. Mrs. TuUiver had shed tears several times 
at sister Glegg's unkindness on the subject of 
these unmatronly curls, but the consciousness of look- 
ing the handsomer for them, naturally administered 

4. Mrs. Glegg chose to wear her bonnet in the house 
to-day — untied and tilted slightly, of course — a fre- 
quent practice of hers when she was on a visit, and 
happened to be in a severe humor: she didn't know 
what draughts there might be in strange houses. For 
the same reason she wore a small sable tippet, which 
reached just to her shoulders, and was very far from 
meeting across her well-formed chest, while her long 
neck was protected by a chevaux-de-frise of miscel- 
laneous frilling. One would need to be learned in the 
fashions of those times to know how far in the rear of 
them Mrs. Glegg's slate-colored silk gown must have 
been ; but from certain constellations of small yellow 
spots upon it, and a mouldy odor about it suggestive 
of a damp clothes-chest, it was probable that it be- 
longed to a stratum of garments just old enough to 
have come recently into wear. 

6. Mrs. Glegg held her large gold watch in her hand 


with the many-doubled chain round her fingers, and 
observed to Mrs. Tulliver, who had just returned from 
a visit to the kitchen, that whatever it might be by 
other people's clocks and watches, it was gone half-past 
twelve by hers. 

6. " I don't know what ails sister Pullet," she con- 
tinued. " It used to be the way in our family for one 
to be as early as another, — I'm sure it was so in my 
poor father's time, — and not for one sister to sit half 
an hour before the others came. But if the ways o' 
the family are altered, it shan't be my fault — Til 
never be the one to come into a house when all the 
rest are going away. I wonder at sister Deane — she 
used to be more like me. But if you'll take my 
advice, Bessy, you'll put the dinner forrard a bit, 
sooner than put it back, because folks are late as 
ought to ha' known better." 

7. " Oh dear, there's no fear but what they'll be all 
here in time, sister," said Mrs. Tulliver, in her mild- 
peevish tone. " The dinner won't be ready till half- 
past one. But if its long for you to wait, let me fetch 
you a cheesecake and a glass o' wine." 

" Well, Bessy ! " said Mrs. Glegg, with a bitter 
smile, and a scarcely perceptible toss of her head, " I 
should ha' thought j^ou'd known your own sister better. 
I never did eat between meals, and I'm not going to 
begin. Not but what I hate that nonsense of having 
your dinner at half-past one, when you might have it 


at one. You was never brought up in that way, 

8. "Why, Jane, what can I do? Mr. Tulliver 
doesn't like his dinner before two o'clock, but I put it 
half an hour earlier because o' you." 

" Yes, yes, I know how it is with husbands — they're 
for putting everything off — they'll put the dinner off 
till after tea, if they've got wives as are weak enough 
to give in to such work ; but it's a pity for you, Bessy, 
as you haven't got more strength o' mind. It'll be 
well if your children don't suffer for it. And I hope 
you've not gone and got a great dinner for us. A 
boiled joint, as you could make broth of for the 
kitchen," Mrs. Glegg added, in a tone of emphatic 
protest, " and a plain pudding, with a spoonful o' 
sugar, and no spice, 'ud be far more becoming." 

9. With sister Glegg in this humor, there was a 
cheerful prospect for the day. Mrs. Tulliver never 
went the length of quarrelling with her, but this point 
of the dinner was a tender one, and not at all new, so 
that she could make the same answer she had often 
made before. 

" Mr. Tulliver says he always will have a good 
dinner for his friends while he can pay for it," she 
said, " and he's a right to do as he likes in his own 
house, sister." 

10. " Well, Bessy, I can't leave your children enough 
out o' my savings, to keep 'em from ruin. And you 


mustn't look to having any o' Mr. Glegg's money, for 
it's well if I don't go first — he comes of a long-lived 
family ; and if he was to die and leave me well for my 
life, he'd tie all the money up to go back to his own 

11. The sound of wheels while Mrs. Glegg was speak- 
ing was an interruption highly welcome to Mrs. Tulliver, 
who hastened out to receive sister Pullet — it must be 
sister Pullet, because the sound was that of a four- 

Paet II. 

1. Sister Pullet was in tears when the one-horse 
chaise stopped before Mrs. Tulliver's door, and it was 
apparently requisite that she should shed a few more 
before getting out, for though her husband and Mrs. 
Tulliver stood ready to support her, she sat still and 
shook her head sadly, as she looked through her tears 
at the vague distance. " Why, whativer is the matter, 
sister ? " said Mrs. Tulliver. 

2. There was no reply but a further shake of the 
head, as Mrs. Pullet slowly rose and got down from 
the chaise, not without casting a glance at Mr. Pullet 
to see that he was guarding her handsome silk dress 
from injury. Mr. Pullet was a small man with a high 
nose, small twinkling eyes, and thin lips, in a fresh- 
looking suit of black and a white cravat, that seemed 


to have been tied very tight on some higher principle 
than that of mere personal ease. 

3. It is a pathetic sight and a striking example of 
the complexity introduced into the emotions by a high 
state of civilization — the sight of a fashionably drest 
female in grief. Perceiving that the tears are hurrying 
fast, she unpins her strings and throws them languidly 
backward — a touching gesture, indicative, even in the 
deepest gloom, of the hope in future dry moments 
when cap-strings will once more have a charm. 

4. Mrs. Pullet brushed each doorpost with great nicety, 
about the latitude of her shoulders (at that period a 
woman was truly ridiculous to an instructed eye if she 
did not measure a yard and a half across the shoulders), 
and having done that, sent the muscles of her face in 
quest of fresh tears as she advanced into the parlor 
where Mrs. Glegg was seated. 

6. " Well, sister, you're late ; what's the matter ? " 
said Mrs. Glegg, rather sharply, as they shook hands. 

Mrs. Pullet sat down — lifting up her mantle care- 
fully behind, before she answered — - 

" She's gone. Died the day before yesterday, an' 
her legs was as thick as my body," she added, with deep 
sadness, after a pause. " They'd tapped her no end o' 
times, and the water — they say you might ha' swum 
in it, if you'd liked." 

6. " Well, Sophy, it's a mercy she's gone, then, who- 
ever she may be," said Mrs. Glegg, with the promptitude 


and emphasis of a mind naturally clear and de- 
cided ; " but I can't think who you're talking of, for 
my part." 

" But /know," said Mrs. Pullet, sighing and shaking 
her head ; " and there isn't another such a dropsy in 
the parish. I know as its old Mrs. Sutton o' the 

" Well, she's no kin o' yours, nor much acquaintance 
as I've ever heared of," said Mrs. Glegg, who always 
cried just as much as was proper when anything hap- 
pened to her own " kin," but not on other occasions. 

7. "She said to me, when I went to see her last 
Christmas, she said, ' Mrs. Pullet, if ever you have the 
dropsy, you'll think o' me.' She did say so," added 
Mrs. Pullet, beginning to cry bitterly again; "those 
were her very words. And she's to be Jburied o' 
Saturday, and Pullet's bid to the funeral." 

" Sophy," said Mrs. Glegg, unable any longer to 
contain her spirit of rational remonstrance — " Sophy, 
I wonder at you, fretting and injuring your health 
about people as don't belong to you. Your poor father 
never did so, nor your aunt Frances neither, nor any o' 
the family as I ever heard of. You couldn't fret no 
more than this, if we'd heared as our cousin Abbott had 
died sudden without making his will." 

8. Mrs. Pullet was silent, having to finish her cry- 
ing, and rather flattered than indignant at being up- 
braided for crying too much. 


" Ah ! " she sighed, shaking her head at the idea 
that there were but few who could enter fully into her 
experiences. " Sister, I may as well go and take my 
bonnet off now. Did you see as the cap-box was put 
out ? " she added, turning to her husband. 

Mr. Pullet, by an unaccountable lapse of memory, 
had forgotten it, and hastened out, with a stricken 
conscience, to remedy the omission. 

9. " They'll bring it up-stairs, sister," said Mrs. TuUi- 
ver, wishing to go at once, for she was fond of going 
up-stairs with her sister Pullet, and looking thoroughly 
at her cap before she put it on her head, and discussing 
millinery in general. This was part of Bessy's weak- 
ness, that stirred Mrs. Glegg's sisterly compassion: 
Bessy went far too well drest, considering. 

But when Mrs. Pullet was alone with Mrs. Tulliver 
up-stairs, the remarks were naturally to the disadvan- 
tage of Mrs. Glegg, and they agreed, in confidence, 
that there was no knowing what sort of fright sister 
Jane would come out next. 

George Eliot. 



The Cock is crowing, 
The stream is flowing, 
The small birds twitter, 
The lake doth glitter, 

The green field sleeps in the sun ; 
The oldest and youngest 
Are at work with the strongest ; 
The cattle are grazing, 
Their heads never raising ; 

There are forty feeding like one I 


Like an army defeated 

The snow hath retreated, 

And now doth fare ill 

On the top of the bare hill ; 
The ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon 

There's joy in the mountains ; 

There's life in the fountains ; 

Small clouds are sailing. 

Blue sky prevailing ; 
The rain is over and gone ! 

William Woedswoeth 




1. We have caus6 for honest complacency, that 
when the distant citizen of our own republic, when the 
stranger from foreign lands, inquires for the spots 
where the noble blood of the Revolution began to flow, 
where the first battle of that great and glorious contest 
was fought, he is guided through the villages of Middle- 
sex, to the plains of Lexington and Concord. It is a 
commemoration of our soil, to which ages, as they pass, 
will add dignity and interest ; till the names of Lexing- 
ton and Concord in the annals of freedom, will stand 
by the side of the most honorable names in Roman or 
Grecian story. 

2. It was one of those great days, one of those ele- 
mental occasions in the world's affairs, when the people 
rise and act for themselves. Some organization and 
preparation had been made ; but from the nature of the 
case, with scarce any effect on the events of that day. 


3. It may be doubted whether there was an efficient 
order given, the whole day, to any body of men as large 
as a regiment. It was the people, in their first capacity, 
as citizens and as freemen, starting from their beds at 
midnight, from their firesides and from their fields, to 
take their own cause into their own hands. 

4. Such a spectacle is the height of the moral sub- 
lime ; when the want of everything is fully made up by 
the spirit of the cause, and the soul within stands in 
place of discipline, organization, and resources. In the 
prodigious efforts of a veteran army, beneath the daz- 
zling splendor of their array, there is something revolt- 
ing to the reflective mind. 

5. The ranks are filled with the desperate, the mer- 
cenary, the depraved ; an iron slavery, by the name of 
subordination, merges the free will of one hundred 
thousand men in the unqualified despotism of one; 
the humanity, mercy, and remorse, which scarce ever 
desert the individual bosom, are sounds without a 
meaning to that fearful, ravenous, irrational monster 
of prey, a mercenary army. It is hard to say who are 
most to be commiserated, the wretched people on whom 
it is let loose, or the still more wretched people whose 
substance has been sucked out to nourish it into 
strength and fury. 

6. But in the efforts of the people, — of the people 
struggling for their rights, moving, not in organized, 
disciplined masses, but in their spontaneous action, man 


for man, and heart for heart, — there is something glo- 
rious. They can then move forward without orders, 
act together without combination, and brave the flam- 
ing lines of battle, without intrenchments to cover or 
walls to shield them. 

7. No dissolute camp has worn off from the feelings 
of the youthful soldier the freshness of that home, where 
his mother and his sister sit waiting, with tearful eyes 
and aching hearts, to hear good news from the wars ; 
no long service in the ranks of a conqueror has turned 
the veteran's heart into marble ; their valor springs not 
from recklessness, from habit, from indifference to the 
preservation of a life knit by no pledges to the life of 
others. But in the strength and spirit of the cause 
alone they act, they contend, they bleed. In this they 

8. The people always conquer. They always must 
conquer. Armies may be defeated, kings may be over- 
thrown, and new dynasties imposed, by foreign arms, 
on an ignorant and slavish race, that care not in what 
language the covenant of their subjection runs, nor in 
whose name the deed of their barter and sale is made 
out. But the people never invade ; and, when they 
rise against the invader, are never subdued. 

9. If they are driven from the plains, they fly to the 
mountains. Steep rocks and everlasting hills are their 
castles ; the tangled, pathless thicket their palisado, 
and God is their ally. Now he overwhelms the hosts 


of their enemies beneath his drifting mountains of sand ; 
now he buries them beneath a falling atmosphere of 
polar snows ; he lets loose his tempests on their fleets ; 
he puts a folly into their counsels, a madness into the 
hearts of their leaders ; and never gave, and never will 
give, a final triumph over a virtuous and gallant people, 
resolved to be free. 

Edward Everett. 


Here are old trees — tall oaks and gnarled pines — 
That stream with gray-green mosses ; here the ground 
Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up 
Unsown, and die ungathered. 


It is sweet 
To linger here, among the flitting birds 
And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds 
That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass, 
A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set 
With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades — 
Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old — 
My thoughts go up the long, dim path of years, 
Back to the earliest days of liberty. 



O Freedom, thou art not, as poets dream, 

A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, 

And wavy tresses, gushing from the cap 

With which the Roman master crowned his slave 

When he took off the gyves. A bearded man. 

Armed to the teeth, art thou ; one mailed hand 

Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy brow. 

Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred 

With tokens of old wars ; thy massive limbs 

Are strong with struggling. 


Power at thee has launched 
His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee ; 
They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven. 
Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep. 
And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires. 
Have forged thy chain ; yet while he deems thee bound, 
The links are shivered, and the prison walls 
Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth, 
As springs the flame above a burning pile 
And shoutest to the nations, who return , 

Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. 

Thy birthright was not given by human hands ; 
Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, 
While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him. 
To tend the quiet flock, and watch the stars, 
And teach the reed to utter simple airs. 


Thou, by his side, amid the tangled wood, 
Didst war upon the panther and the wolf. 
His only foes ; and thou with him didst draw 
The earliest furrows on the mountain-side, 
Soft with the deluge, 


Tyranny himself, 
Thy enemy, although of reverend look. 
Hoary with many years, and far obeyed. 
Is later born than thou ; and as he meets 
The grave defiance of thine elder eye. 
The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. 


O, not yet 

Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by 
Thy sword ; nor yet, O Freedom, close thy lids 
In slumber ; for thine enemy never sleeps. 
And thou must watch and combat till the day 
Of the new earth and heaven. 


But would st thou rest 
Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men. 
These old and friendly solitudes invite 
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees 
Were young upon the unviolated earth. 
And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, 
Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. 




OF FRANCE, 1789. 

1. I hear much said of patriotism, appeals to patriot- 
ism, transports of patriotism. Gentlemen, why prosti- 
tute this noble world ? Is it so very magnanimous to 
give up a part of your income in order to save your 
whole property ? This is very simple arithmetic ; and 
he that hesitates, deserves contempt rather than indig- 

2. Yes, gentlemen, it is to your immediate self-in- 
terest, to your most familiar notions of prudence and 
policy that I now appeal. I say not to you now, as 
heretofore, beware how you give the world the first ex- 
ample of an assembled nation untrue to the public faith. 

3. I ask you not, as heretofore, what right you have 
to freedom, or what means of maintaining it, if, at your 
first step in administration, you outdo in baseness all 
the old and corrupt governments. I tell you, that 
unless you prevent this catastrophe, you will all be in- 
volved in the general ruin ; and that you are yourselves 
the persons most deeply interested in making the sacri- 
fices which the government demands of you. 

4. I exhort you, then, most earnestly, to vote these 
extraordinary supplies ; and God grant they may prove 
sufficient ! Vote, then, I beseech you ; for, even if you 
doubt the expediency of the means, you know perfectly 


well that the supplies are necessary, and that you are 
incapable of raising them in any other way. Vote them 
at once, for the crisis does not admit of delay ; and, if 
it occurs, we must be responsible for the consequences. 

5. Beware of asking for time. Misfortune accords 
it never. While you are lingering, the evil day will 
come upon you. Why, gentlemen, it is but a few days 
since, that upon occasion of some foolish bustle in the 
Palais Royal, some ridiculous insurrection that existed 
nowhere but in the heads of a few weak or designing 
individuals, we were told with emphasis, " Catiline is 
at the gates of Rome, and yet we deliberate." 

6. We know, gentlemen, that this was all imagina- 
tion. We are far from being at Rome ; nor is there 
any Catiline at the gates of Paris. But now are we 
threatened with a real danger ; bankruptcy, national 
bankruptcy, is before you ; it threatens to swallow up 
your persons, your property, your honor, — and yet 
you deliberate. 



1, These boys congregated every autumn about a cer- 
tain easterly fisher- village, where they tasted in a high 
degree the glory of existence. The place was created 
seemingly on purpose for the diversion of young gen- 
tlemen. A street or two of houses, mostly red and 
many of them tiled ; a number of fine trees clustered 


about the manse and the kirkyard, and turning the 
chief street into a shady alley ; many little gardens more 
than usually bright with flowers; nets a-drying, and 
fisher-wives scolding in the backward parts ; a smell of 
fish, a genial smell of seaweed ; whiffs of blowing sand 
at the street corners : shops with golf-balls and bottled 
lollipops ; such, as well as memory serves me, were the 
ingredients of the town. 

2. These, you are to conceive posted on a spit be- 
tween two sandy bays, and sparsely flanked with villas 
— enough for the boys to lodge in with their subsidiary 
parents, not enough (not yet enough) to cocknify the 
scene ; a haven in the rocks in front : in front of that, 
a file of gray islets ; to the left, endless links and sand 
wreaths, a wilderness of hiding-holes, alive with pop- 
ping rabbits and soaring gulls : Ifco the right, a range 
of seaward crags, one rugged brow beyond another; 
the ruins of a mighty and ancient fortress on the brink 
of one; coves between — now charmed into sunshine 
quiet, now whistling with wind and clamorous with 
bursting surges ; the dens and sheltered hollows redo- 
lent of thyme and southernwood, the air at the cliff's 
edge brisk and clean and pungent of the sea — in front 
of all, the Bass Rock, tilted seaward like a doubtful 
bather, the surf ringing it with white, the solan-geese 
hanging round its summit like a great and glittering 

3. This choice piece of seaboard was sacred, besides, 


to the wrecker ; and the Bass, in the eye of fancy, still 
flew the colors of King James ; and in the ear of fancy 
the arches of Tantallon still rang with horse-shoe iron, 
and echoed to the commands of Bell -— the — Cat. 

4. ... But what my memory dwells upon the most 
was a sport peculiar to the place, and indeed to a week 
or so of our two months' holiday there. Maybe it still 
flourishes in its native spot ; for boys and their pastimes 
are swayed by periodic forces inscrutable to man ; so 
that tops and marbles reappear in their due season, 
regular like the sun and moon ; and the harmless art of 
knuckle-bones has seen the fall of the Roman empire 
and the rise of the United States. 

5. It may still flourish in its native spot, but nowhere 
else, I am persuaded ; for I tried myself to introduce it 
on Tweed-side, and was defeated lamentably ; its charm 
being quite local, like a country wine that cannot be 

6. The idle manner of it was this : Toward the end of 
September, when school-time was drawing near and the 
nights were already black, we would begin to sally 
from our respective villas, each equipped with a tin 
bnll's-eye lantern. The thing was so well known that 
it had worn a rut in the commerce of Great Britain ; 
and the grocers, about the due time, began to garnish 
their windows with our particular brand of luminary. 
We wore them buckled to the waist upon a cricket 
belt, and over them, such was the rigour of the game, 


a buttoned top-coat. They smelled noisomely of blis- 
tered tin ; they never burned aright, though they would 
always burn our fingers ; their use was naught ; the 
pleasure of them merely fanciful ; and yet a boy with a 
bull's-eye under his top-coat asked for nothing more. 
y" 7. The fishermen used lanterns about their boats, and 
it was from them, I suppose, that we had got the hint ; 
but theirs were not bull's-eyes, nor did we ever play 
at being fishermen. The police carried them at their 
belts, and we had plainly copied them in that ; yet we 
did not pretend to be policemen. Burglars, indeed, we 
may have had some haunting thoughts of ; and we had 
certainly an eye to past ages when lanterns were more 
common, and to~~certain story-books in which we had 
found them to figure very largely. But take it for all 
in all, the pleasure of the thing was substantive, and to 
be a boy with a bull's-eye under his top-coat was good 
enough for us. 

8. When two of these asses met, there would be an 
anxious " Have you got your lantern?" and a gratified 
" Yes ! " That was the shibboleth, and very needful 
too I for, as it was the rule to keep our glory contained, 
none could recognize a lantern bearer, unless (like the 
pole-cat) by the smell. Four or five would sometimes 
climb into the belly of a ten-man lugger, with nothing 
but the thwarts above them — for the cabin was usually 
locked, or choose out some hollow of the links where 
the wind might whistle overhead. There the coats 


would be unbuttoned and the bull's-eyes discovered; 
and in the chequering glimmer, under the huge windy 
hall of the night, and cheered by a rich steam of toast- 
ing tinware, these fortunate young gentlemen would 
crouch together in the cold sands of the links or on the 
scaly bilges of the fishing-boat, and delight themselves 
with inappropriate talk. 

9. Woe is me that I may not give some specimens — 
some of their foresights of life, or deep inquiries into 
the rudiments of man and nature, these were so fiery 
and so innocent, they were so richly silly, so romanti- 
cally young. But the talk at any rate was but a 
condiment ; and these gatherings themselves only acci- 
dents in the career of the lantern bearer. The essence 
of this bliss was to walk by youi*self in the black night ; 
the slide shut, the top-coat buttoned ; not a ray escaping, 
whether to conduct your footsteps or to make your 
glory public : a mere pillar of darkness in the dark ; 
and all the while, deep down in the privacy of your 
fool's heart, to know you had a bull's-eye at your belt, 
and to exult and sing over the knowledge. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


Woe : lightly to part with one's soul as the sea with its 

foam I 
Woe to Tarpeia, Tarpeia, daughter of Rome I 

[Chap. III.] TAEPEIA. 79 

Lo, now it was night, with the moon looking chill as 

she went: 
It was morn when the innocent stranger strayed into 

the tent. 

The hostile Sabini were pleased, as one meshing a bird ; 
She sang for them there in the ambush : they smiled as 
they heard. 

Her sombre hair purpled in gleams, as she leaned to the 

All day she had idled and feasted, and now it was night. 

The chief sat apart, heavy-browed, brooding elbow on 

The armlets he wore were thrice royal, and wondrous 

to see: 

Exquisite artifice, work of barbaric design. 
Frost's fixdd mimicry ; orbic imaginings fine 

In sevenfold coils : and in orient glimmer from them, 
The variform voluble swinging of gem upon gem. 

And the glory thereof sent fever and fire to her eye. 
" I had never such trinkets ! " she sighed, — like a lute 
was her sigh. 

" Were they mine at the plea, were they mine for the 

token, all told. 
Now the citadel sleeps, now my father the keeper is 



" If I go by the way that I know, and thou folio west 

If yet at the touch of Tarpeia the gates be unbarred ? " 

The chief trembled sharply for joy, then drew rein on 

his soul: 
" Of all this arm beareth I swear I will cede thee the 


And up from the nooks of the camp, with hoarse plau- 
dit outdealt. 

The bearded Sabini glanced hotly, and vowed as they 

Bare-stretching the wrists that bore also the glowing 

great boon : 
" Yea ! surely as over us shine th the lurid low moon, 

" Not alone of our lord, but of each of us take what he 

Too poor is the guerdon, if thou wilt but show us the 

path ! " 

Her nostril upraised, like a fawn's on the arrowy air. 
She sped, in a serpentine gleam to the precipice stair. 

They climbed in her traces, they closed on their evil 

swift star : 
She bent to the latches, and swung the huge portal 


Repulsed where they passed her, half-tearful for wounded 

[Chap. III.] TAKPEIA. 81 

" The bracelets ! " she pleaded. Then faced her, the 
leonine chief, 

Arid answered her : " Even as I promised, maid-mer- 
chant, I do." 

Down from his dark shoulder the baubles he sullenly 

" This left arm shall nothing begrudge thee. Accept. 

Find it sweet. 
Give, too, O my brothers ! " The jewels he flung at 

her feet, 

The jewels hard heavy ; she stooped to them, flushing 
with dread, 

But the shield he flung after : it clanged on her beauti- 
ful head. 

Like the Apennine bells when the villagers* warnings 

Athwart the first lull broke the ominous din upon din ; 

With a " Hail, benefactress ! " upon her they heaped in 

their zeal 
Death : agate and iron ; death : chrysoprase, beryl and 


'Neath the outcry of scorn, 'neath the sinewy tension 

and hurl. 
The moaning died slowly, and still they massed over 

the girl 


A mountain of shields ! and the gemmy hight tangle in 

A torrent-like gush, pouring out on the grass from the 


Pyramidal gold ! the sumptuous monument won 
By the deed they had loved her for, doing, and loathed 
her for, done. 

Such was the wage that they paid her, such the acclaim : 
All Rome was aroused with the thunder that buried her 

On surged the Sabini to battle. O you that aspire ! 
Tarpeia the traitor had fill of her woman's desire. 

Woe : lightly to part with one's soul as the sea with its 

Woe to Tarpeia, Tarpeia, daughter of Rome ! 

Louise Imogen Guiney. 



Hear the sledges with the bells — 
Silver bells. 
What a world of merriment their melody foretells I 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
In the icy air of night I 

[Chap. III.] THE BELLS. 83 

While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight, 

Keeping, time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 


Hear the mellow wedding bells, 
Golden bells ! 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells I 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight I 
From the molten-golden notes, 
All in tune. 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle dove that listens, while she gloats 
, On the moon ! 

Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells I 
How it swells. 
How it dwells 
On the Future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 

Bells, bells, bells — 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 



Hear the loud alarum bells — 

Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror now, their turbalency tells ! 
In the startled air of night 
How they scream out their affright I 
Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune. 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire. 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire. 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now — now to sit, or never, 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
What a tale their terror tells 

Of despair ! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar I 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air I 
Yet the ear, it fully knows. 
By the twanging 
And the clanging. 
How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells. 

In the jangling 
And the wrangling, 
How the danger sinks and swells. 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the 
bells — 

[Chap. III.] THE BELLS. 85 

Of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells — 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 


Hear the tolling of the bells — 

Iron bells I 
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels 
In the silence of the night. 
How we shiver with affright 
With the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 

Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people — 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 

All alone. 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling. 
In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman — 
They are neither brute nor human — 

They are Ghouls : 
And their king it is who tolls ; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
A paean from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the paean of the bells I 


And he dances, and he yells, 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the paean of the bells — 

Of the bells: 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 

To the throbbing of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells — 

To the sobbing of the belLs, 
Keeping time, time, time. 

As he knells, knells, knells, 
In a happy Runic rhyme. 

To the rolling of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells. 

To the tolling of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells ; 

Bells, bells, bells — 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells ! 

E. A. PoE. 


1. Some men look upon this temperance cause as a 
whining bigotry, narrow asceticism, or a vulgar senti- 
mentality, fit for little minds, weak women, and weaker 
men. On the contrary, I regard it as second only to 
one or two others of the primary reforms of the age, and 
for this reason : every race has its peculiar temptation ; 
every clime has its specific sin. 


2. The tropics and tropical races are tempted to one 
form of sensuality ; the colder and temperate regions, 
and our Saxon blood, find their peculiar temptation in 
the stimulus of drink and food. In old times our 
heaven was a drunken revel. We relieve ourselves 
from the ever- weariness of constant and exhausting 
toil by intoxication. Science has brought a cheap 
means of drunkenness within the reach of every in- 

3. National prosperity and free institutions have put 
into the hands of almost every workman the means of 
being drunk for a v/eek on the labor of two or three 
hours. With that blood and that temptation, we have 
adopted democratic institutions, where the law has no 
sanctions but the purpose and virtue of the masses. 
The statute book rests not on bayonets, as in Europe, 
but on the hearts of the people. 

4. A drunken people can never be the basis of a free 
government. It is the corner-stone neither of virtue, 
prosperity, nor progress. To us, therefore, the title- 
deeds of whose estates, and the safety of whose lives 
depend upon the tranquility of the streets, upon the 
virtue of the masses, the presence of any vice which 
brutalizes the average mass of mankind, and tends to 
make it more readily the tool of intriguing and corrupt 
leaders, is necessarily a stab at the very life of the 
nation. Against such a vice is marshalled the Temper- 
a»nce Reformatio4. 


5. That my sketch is no fancy picture every one of 
you knows. Every one of you can glance back over 
your own path, and count many and many a one among 
those who started from the goal at your side, with 
equal energy and perhaps greater promise, who has 
found a drunkard's grave long before this. The bright- 
ness of the bar, the ornament of the pulpit, the hope 
and blessing and stay of many a family — you know, 
every one of you who has reached middle life, how 
often on your path you set up the warning, " Fallen 
before the temptations of the street ! " 

6. Hardly one house in this city, whether it be full 
and warm with all the luxury of wealth, or whether it 
find hard, cold maintenance by the most earnest economy; 
no matter which — hardly a house that does not count 
among sons or nephews some victim of this vice. The 
skeleton of this warning sits at every board. The 
whole world is kindred in this suffering. The country 
mother launches her boy with trembling upon the temp- 
tations of city life ; the father trusts his daughter 
anxiously to the young man she has chosen, knowing 
what a wreck intoxication may make of the house-tree 
they set up. 

7. Alas ! how often are their worst forebodings more 
than fulfilled ! I have known a case — probably many 
of you recall some almost equal to it — where one 
worthy woman could count father, brother, husband, 
and son-in-law all drunkards — no man among her near 

[Chap. III.] Sheridan's ride. 89 

kindred, except her son, who was not a victim of this 
vice. Like all other appetites, this finds resolution 
weak when set against the constant presence of temp- 

Wendell Phillips. 


Up from the South at break of day, 

Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 

The affrighted air with a shudder bore. 

Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, 

The terrible grumble and rumble and roar, 

Telling the battle was on once more. 

And Sheridan — twenty miles away I 


And wilder still those billows of war 

Thundered along the horizon's bar ; 

And louder yet into Winchester rolled 

The roar of that red sea uncontrolled. 

Making the blood of the listener cold, 

As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray. 

And Sheridan — twenty miles away ! 


But there is a road from Winchester town, 
A good, broad highway leading down 5 


And there, through the flush of the morning light, 

A steed as black as the steeds of night, 

Was seen to pass as with eagle flight — 

As if he knew the terrible need, 

He stretched away with the utmost speed ; 

Hills rose and fell — but his heart was gay, 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away ! 

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, 

The dust, like the smoke from the cannon's mouth, 

Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster. 

Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster ; 

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 

Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls. 

Impatient to be where the battlefield calls ; 

Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 

With Sheridan only ten miles away I 

Under his spurning feet the road 

Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed. 

And the landscape sped away behind 

Like an ocean flying before the wind ; 

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, 

Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire. 

But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire — 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, * 

With Sheridan only five miles away I 

[Chap. III. 3 shekidan's ride. 91 


The first that the General saw were the groups 
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops ; 
What was done — what to do — a glance told him both, 
Tlien striking his spurs with a muttered oath, 
He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzahs, 
And the wave of retreat checked its course there, be- 
The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 
With foam and with dust the black charger was gray ; 
By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril's play, 
He seemed to the whole great army to say, 
" I have brought you Sheridan all the way 
From Winchester down to save the day I '* 


Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan ! 
Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! 
And when their statues are placed on high, 
Under the dome of the Union sky — 
The American soldier's temple of Fame, — 
There, with the glorious General's name, 
Be it said in letters both bold and bright : 
•* Here is the steed that saved the day. 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight 
From Winchester — twenty miles away I" 

T. B. Read. 



Is reform needed ? Is it through you ? 

The greater the reform needed, the greater the 
Personality you need to accomplish it. 

You I do you not see how it would serve to have eyes, 
blood, complexion, clean and sweet? 

Do you not see how it would serve to have such a body 
and soul that when you enter the crowd an atmos- 
phere of desire and command enters with you, and 
every one is impressed with your Personality ? 

O the magnet ! the flesh over and over ! 

Go dear friend, if need be give up all else and com- 
mence to-day to inure yourself to pluck, reality, 
self-esteem, definiteness, elevatedness, 

Rest not till you rivet and publish yourself of your 
own Personality. 

Walt Whitman. 




1. "Now,'* said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, 
with the agreeable items of strong beer and cherry- 
brandy, had been done ample justice to, " what say you 
to an hour on the ice ? We shall have plenty of time." 

" Capital I " said Mr. Benjamin Allen. 

" Prime ! " ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer. 

" You skate, of course, Winkle ? " said Wardle. 

2. "Ye — yes; oh, yes!" replied Mr. Winkle. "I 
— am rather out of practice." 

« Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. " I like 
to see it so much I " 

" Oh, it is so graceful ! ' ' said another young lady. 

A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth 
expressed her opinion that it was " swan-like." 

S. " I should be very happy, I am sure," said Mr. 
Winkle, reddening ; " but I have no skates." 



This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had 
got a couple of pair, and the fat boy announced that 
there were half a dozen more down-stairs ; whereat Mr. 
Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exqui- 
sitely uncomfortable. 

4. Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of 
ice ; and, the fat boy and Mr. Weller having shovelled 
and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during 
the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a 
dexterity which to Mr. Winkle v/as perfectly marvel- 
lous, and described circles with his left leg, and cut 
figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without 
once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant 
and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of 
Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies; which 
reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm when old Wardle 
and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the aforesaid Bob 
Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which they 
called a reel. 

5. All this time Mr, Winkle, with his face and hands 
blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the 
soles of his feet, and putting his skates on with the 
points behind, and getting the straps into a very com- 
plicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. 
Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a 
Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of 
Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed 
and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet. 


6. "Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging 
tone, " off with you, and show 'em how to do it." 

" Stop, Sam, stop I " said Mr. Winkle, trembling 
violently, and clutching hold of Sam's arms with the 
grasp of a drowning man. " How slippery it is, Sam I " 

" Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. 
Weller. " Hold up, sir." 

This last observation of Mr. Weller' s bore reference 
to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made, at the instant, of 
a frantic desire to tlirow his feet in the air, and dash 
the back of his head on the ice. 

7. " These — these — are very awkward skates j ain't 
they, Sam ? " inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering. 

" I'm afeered there's an orkard gen'lm'n in 'em, sir," 
replied Sam. 

"Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite uncon- 
scious that there was anything the matter, " Come ; 
the ladies are all anxiety." 

"Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle with a ghastly smile, 
" I'm coming." 

" Just a-goin' to begin," said Sam, endeavoring to 
disengage himself. " Now, sir, start off.'* 

8. "Stop an instant, Sam," gasped Mr. Winkle, 
clinging most affectionately to Mr. Weller. " I find 
I've got a couple of coats at home that I don't want, 
Sam. You may have them, Sam." 

" Thankee, Sir," replied Mr. Weller. 

"Never mind touching your hat, Sam," said Mr. 


Winkle hastily. " You needn't take your hand away 
to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings 
this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it to 
you this afternoon, Sam." 

" You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. Weller. 

" Just hold me at first, Sam, will you ? " said Mr. 
Winkle. " There, that's right. I shall soon get in the 
way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam ; not too fast ! " 

9. Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half 
doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. 
Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like manner, 
when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the 
opposite bank,— 

"Sam I" 

"Sir?" said Mr. Weller. 
" Here I I want you." 

" Let go, sir," said Sam ; " don't you hear the gov- 
ernor a-callin' ? Let go, sir." 

10. With a violent effort Mr. Weller disengaged him- 
self from the grasp of the agonized Pickwickian ; and, 
in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to the 
unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no de- 
gree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that 
unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the 
centre of the reel, at the very moment when Mr. Bob 
Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. 
Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud 
crash they fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to 


the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet ; but Mr. 
Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind in 
skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic 
efforts to smile ; but anguish was depicted on every 
lineament of his countenance. 

11. "Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen 
with great anxiety. 

*'Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back 
very hard. 

" I wish you would let me bleed you," said Mr. 
Benjamin Allen with great eagerness. 

" No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly. 

" I really think you had better," said Mr. Allen. 

" Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle, " I'd rather not." 

"What do you think, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired 
Bob Sawyer. 

12. Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He 
beckoned to Mr. Weller, and said in a stern voice, 
" Take his skates off." 

" No ; but really I had scarcely begun," remonstrated 
Mr. Winkle. 

" Take his skates off," repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly. 

The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle 
allowed Sam to obey it in silence. 

" Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted 
him to rise. 

13. Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the 
by-standers ; and, beckoning his friend to approach, 


fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low 
but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words : 

" You're a humbug, sir." 

" A what? " said Mr. Winkle, starting. 

" A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer if you wish 
it. An imposter, sir." 

With these words Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on 
his heel, and rejoined his friends. 

14. While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of 
the sentiment jast recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, 
having by their joint endeavors cut out a slide, were ex- 
ercising themselves thereupon in a very masterly and 
brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was dis- 
playing that beautiful feat of fancy sliding, which is 
currently denominated " knocking at the cobbler's door," 
and which is achieved by skimming over the ice on 
one foot, and occasionally giving a twopenny postman's 
knock upon it with the other. It was a good long slide ; 
and there was something in the motion which Mr. 
Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, could 
not help envying. 

15. "It looks a nice warm exercise, that, doesn't 
it ? " he inquired of Wardle, when that gentleman was 
thoroughly out of breath by reason of the indefatigable 
manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair of 
compasses, and drawn complicated problems on the ice. 

"Ah, it does, indeed," replied Wardle. "Do you 


" I used to do so on the gutters, when I was a boy," 
replied Mr. Pickwick. 

" Try it now," said Wardle. 

" Oh, do please, Mr. Pickwick ! " cried all the ladies. 

" I should be very happy to afford you any amuse- 
ment," replied Mr. Pickwick ; " but I haven't done such 
a thing these thirty years." 

16. *' Pooh ! pooh ! nonsense I " said Wardle, drag- 
ging off his skates with the impetuosity which character- 
ized all his proceedings. " Here ! I'll keep you com- 
pany ; come along." And away went the good-tempered 
old fellow down the slide with a rapidity which came 
very close upon Mr. Weller, and beat the fat boy all to 

Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his 
gloves, and put them in his hat, took two or three short 
runs, balked himself as often, and at last took another 
run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with 
his feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the 
gratified shouts of all the spectators. 

17. " Keep the pot a-bilin', sir," said Sam; and 
down went Wardle again, and then Mr. Pickwick, and 
then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob 
Sawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass , 
following closely upon each other's heels, and running 
after each other with as much eagerness as if all 
their future prospects in life depended on their ex- 


18r It was the most intensely interesting thing to 
observe the manner in which Mr. Pickwick performed 
his share in the ceremony; to watch the torture of 
anxiety with which he viewed the person behind gain- 
ing upon him at the imminent hazard of tripping him 
up ; to see him gradually expend the painful force which 
he had put on at first, and turn slowly round on the 
slide, with his face towards the point from which he 
started ; to contemplate the playful smile which mantled 
on his face when he had accomplished the distance, and 
the eagerness with which he turned round when he had 
done so, and ran after his predecessor, his black gaiters 
tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes 
beaming cheerfulness and gladness through his specta- 
cles. And when he was knocked down, (which hap- 
pened upon the average every third round), it was 
the most invigorating sight that could possibly be imag- 
ined, to behold him gather up his hat, gloves, and 
handkerchief with a glowing countenance, and resume 
his station in the rank with an ardor and enthusiasm 
which nothing could abate. 

19. The sport was at its height, the sliding was at 
the quickest, the laughter was at the loudest, when a 
sharp, smart crack was heard. There was a quick rush 
towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a 
shout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disap- 
peared, the water bubbled up over it, and Mr. Pick- 
wick's hat, gloves, and handkerchief were floating on 


the surface ; and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that any- 
body could see. 

20. Dismay and anguish were depicted on every 
countenance; the males turned pale, and the females 
fainted; Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each 
other by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their 
leader had gone down, with frenzied eagerness ; while 
Mr. Tupman, by way of rendering the promptest assist- 
ance, and at the same time conveying to any person 
who might be within hearing the clearest possible 
notion of the catastrophe, ran off across the country at 
his utmost speed, screaming " Fire ! " with all his might 
and main. 

21. It was at this very moment, when old Wardle 
and Sam Weller were approaching the hole with cau- 
tious steps and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a 
hurried consultation with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the ad- 
visability of bleeding the company generally, as an im- 
proving little bit of professional practice, — it was at 
this very moment that a face, head, and shoulders 
emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the 
features and spectacles of Mr. Pickwick. 

22. " Keep yourself up for an instant, for only one 
instant," bawled Mr. Snodgrass. 

" Yes — do : let me implore you — for my sake," 
roared Mr. Winkle, deeply affected. The adjuration 
was rather unnecessary ; the probability being, that, if 
Mr. Pickwick had not decided to keep himself up for 


anybody else's sake, it would have occurred to him that 
he might as well do so for his own. 

" Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow ? " said 

" Yes — certainly," replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing 
the water from his head and face, and gasping for 
breath. " I fell upon my back. I couldn't get on my 
feet at first." 

23. The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick's coat 
as was yet visible bore testimony to the accuracy of this 
statement ; and, as the fears of the spectators were still 
further relieved by the fat boy's suddenly recollecting 
that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep, 
prodigies of valor were performed to get him out. 
After a vast quantity of splashing and cracking and 
struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length fairly extricated 
from his unpleasant situation, and once more stood on 
dry land. 

24. Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and started off 
for home, presenting the singular phenomenon of an 
elderly gentleman dripping wet, and without a hat, 
with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over 
the ground without any clearly defined purpose, at the 
rate of six good English miles an hour. 

Chaelbs Dickens. 

[Chap. IV.] THE EBALM OF FANCY. 108 


Ever let the Fancy roam ; 

Pleasure never is at home : 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 

Then let winged Fancy wander 

Through the thought still spread beyond her % 

Open wide the mind's cage-door, 

She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 


O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 
And the enjoying of the Spring 
Fades as does its blossoming ; 
Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too. 
Blushing through the mist and dew, 
Cloys with tasting : What do then ? 
Sit thee by the ingle, when 
The sear faggot blazes bright. 
Spirit of a winter's night ; 
When the soundless earth is muffled, 
And the cak^d snow is shuffled 
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon ; 
When the Night doth meet the Nooa 
In a dark conspiracy 
To banish Even from her sky. 

Sit thee there, and send abroad, 
With a mind self-overaw'd, 


Fancy, high-commission'd : — send her I 
She has vassals to attend her: 
She will bring, in spite of frost, 
Beauties that the earth hath lost ; 
She will bring thee, all together, 
All delights of summer weather ; 
All the buds and bells of May, 
From dewy sward of thorny spray ; 
All the heaped Autumn's wealth, 
With a still, mysterious stealth : 


She will mix these pleasures up 

Like three fit wines in a cup, 

And thou shalt quaff it : — thou shalt hear 

Distant harvest-carols clear; 

Rustle of the reaped corn ; 

Sweet birds antheming the morn : 

And, in the same moment — hark ! 

'Tis the early April lark, 

Or the rooks, with busy caw. 

Foraging for sticks and straw. 

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 
The daisy and the marigold ; 
White-plumed lilies, and the first 
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst 
Shaded hyacinth, alway 
Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 
And every leaf, and every flower 
Pearled with the self-same shower. 

[Chap. IV.] THE EBALM OF FANCY. 105 


Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 
Meagre from its celled sleep ; 
And the snake all winter-thin 
Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 
Quiet on her mossy nest ; 
Then the hurry and alarm 
When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 
Acorns ripe down-pattering, 
While the autumn breezes sing. 


Oh, sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
Everything is spoilt by use : 
Where's the cheek that doth not fade. 
Too much gazed at ? Where's the maid 
Whose lip mature is ever new ? 
Where's the eye, however blue. 
Doth not weary ? Where's the face 
One would meet in every place ? 
Where's the voice, however soft. 
One would hear so very oft? 
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 


Let then winged Fancy find 
Thee a mistress to thy mind : 
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, 


Ere the God of Torment tauglit her 

How to frown and how to chide ; 

With a waist and with a side 

White as Hebe's, when her zone 

Slipt its golden clasp, and down 

Fell her kirtle to her feet. 

While she held the goblet sweet, 

And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 

Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 

Quickly break her prison-string. 

And such joys as these she'll bring. 

— Let the winged Fancy roam, 

Pleasure never is at home. 

J. Keats. 



Oh, wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the north, 

With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment 

all red? 

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout ? 

And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which 

we tread? 

Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that ye trod ; 
For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the 
Who sat in the high places, and slew the saints of 



It was about the noon of a glorious day in June, 

That we saw their banner's dance, and their cuirasses 
shine : 
And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced 
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the 


Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword. 
The general rode along us, to form us to the fight. 

When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into 
a shout. 
Among the godless horsemen, upon the tyrant's right. 


And, hark ! like the roar of the billows on the shore, 
The cry of battle rises along their charging line ! 

For God ! for the Cause I for the Church I for the Laws ! 
For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of the 
Rhine I 


The furious German comes, with his clarions and his 
His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall ; 
They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, 
close your ranks, 
For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. 


They are here 1 They rush on ! We are broken ! We 
are gone I 
Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. 
O Lord, put forth thy might ! O Lord, defend the right I 
Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to 
the last. 

Stout Skippon hath a wound ; the center hath given 
ground ; 
Hark ! hark ! What means this trampling of horse- 
men in our rear ? 
Whose banner do I see, boys ? *Tis he, thank God ! 'tis 
he, boys. 
Bear up another minute : brave Oliver is hers. 


Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, 
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge en the 
dykes ; 

Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, 
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. 


Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide 
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple 
And he — he turns, he flies : — shame on those cruel 
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on 

LoED Macaflay. 



1. I had occasion, a few weeks since, to take the early- 
train from Providence to Boston ; and for this purpose 
rose at two o'clock in the morning. Everything 
around was wrapt in darkness and hushed in silence, 
broken only by what seemed at that hour the un- 
earthly clank and rush of the train. It was a mild, 
serene, midsummer's night — the sky was without a 
cloud — the winds were whist. The moon, then in 
the last quarter, had just risen, and the stars shone 
with a spectral lustre but little affected by her pres- 
ence. Jupiter two hours high, was the herald of the 
day; the Pleiades, just above the horizon, shed their 
sweet influence in the east; Lyra sparkled near the 
zenith; the steady pointers, far beneath the pole, 
looked meekly up from the depths of the north to their 

2. Such was the glorious spectacle as I entered the 
train. As we proceeded, the timid approach of twi- 
light became more perceptible ; the intense blue of the 
sky began to soften; the smaller stars, like little 
children, went first to rest; the sister-beams of the 
Pleiades soon melted together; but the laright con- 
stellations of the west and north remained unchanged. 
Steadily the wondrous transfiguration went on. Hands 
of angels, hidden from mortal eyes, shifted the scenery 
of the heavens ; the glories of night dissolved into the 
glories of dawn. 


, 3. The blue sky now turned more softly gray ; the 
great watch-stars shut up their holy eyes; the east 
began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon blushed 
along the sky; the whole celestial concave was filled 
with the inflowing tides of the morning light, which 
came pouring down from above in one great ocean of 
radiance ; till at length, as we reached the Blue Hills, 
a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the horizon, 
and turned the dewy tear-drops of flower and leaf into 
rubies and diamonds. In a few seconds, the ever- 
lasting gates of the morning were thrown wide open, 
and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for 
the gaze of man, began his state. 

4. I do not wonder at the superstition of the ancient 
Magians, who in the morning of the world went up to 
the hill-tops of Central Asia, and, ignorant of the true 
God, adored the most glorious work of his hand. But 
I am filled with amazement, when I am told, that, in 
this enlightened age and in the heart of the Christian 
world, there are persons who can witness this daily 
manifestation of the power and wisdom of the Creator, 
and yet say in their hearts, " There is no God." 

Edwabd Everett. 



This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

Sails the unshadowed main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purple wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren aings, 

And coral reefs lie bare. 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 


Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl, • — 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 

And every chambered cell. 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed I 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 
That spread his lustrous coil ; 
Still, as the spiral grew, 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new. 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 

Built up its idle door, 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no 


Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 
Child of the wandering sea. 


Cast from her lap forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is borne 

Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 
While on mine ear it rings, 

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that 
sings : 


Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll I 

Leave thy low-vaulted past I 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last. 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast. 

Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! 

O. W. Holmes. 


1. Once more I am upon this serene hill-top ! The 
air is very clear, very still, and very solemn or, rather, 
tenderly sad, in its serene brightness. It is not that 
moist spring air, full of the smell of wood, of the soil, 
and of the odor of vegetation, which warm winds bring 
to us from the south. 

2. It is not that summer atmosphere, full of alterna- 
tions of haze and fervent clearness, as if Nature were 
calling into life every day some influence for its myriad 
children; sometimes in showers, and sometimes with 
coercive heat upon root and leaf ; and, like a universal 

[Chap. IV.] AUTUMN. 113 

task-master, was driving up the hours to accomplish the 
labors of the year. 

3. No ! In these autumn days there is a sense of 
leisure and of meditation. The sun seems to look 
down upon the labors of its fiery hands with com- 
placency. Be satisfied, O seasonable Sun ! Thou 
hast shaped an ample year, and art garnering up har- 
vests which well may swell thy rejoicing heart with 
gracious gladness. 

4. One who breaks off in summer, and returns in 
autumn to the hills, needs almost to come to a new 
acquaintance with the most familiar things. It is 
another world ; or it is the old world a-masquerading ; 
and you halt, like one scrutinizing a disguised friend, 
between the obvious dissemblance and the subtile 

5. Southward of our front door there stood two elms, 
leaning their branches toward each other, forming a 
glorious arch of green. Now, in faint yellow, they 
grow attenuated and seem as if departing ; they are 
losing their leaves and fading out of sight, as trees do 
in twilight. Yonder, over against that young growth 
of birch and evergreen, stood, all summer long, a 
perfect maple-tree, rounded out on every side, thick 
with luxuriant foliage, and dark with greenness, save 
when the morning sun, streaming through it, sent 
transparency to its very heart. 

6. Now it is a tower of gorgeous red. So sober and 


solemn did it seem all summer, that I should think as 
soon to see a prophet dancing at a peasant's holiday, as 
it transfigured to such intense gayety ! Its fellows, 
too, the birches and the walnuts, burn from head to 
foot with fires that glow but never consume. 

7. But these holiday hills I Have the evening 
clouds, suffused with sunset, dropped down and become 
fixed into solid forms? Have the rainbows that fol- 
lowed autumn storms faded upon the mountains and 
left their mantles there ? Yet, with all their brilliancy, 
how modest do they seem ; how patient when bare, or 
burdened with winter ; how cheerful when flushed with 
summer-green, and how modest when they lift up 
their wreathed and crowned heads in the resplendent 
days of autumn ! 

8. I stand alone upon the peaceful summit of this 
hill, and turn in every direction. The east is all 
a-glow ; the blue north flushes all her hills with 
radiance ; the west stands in burnished armor ; the 
southern hills buckle the zone of the horizon together 
with emeralds and rubies, such as were never set in 
the fabled girdle of the gods I Of gazing there cannot 
be enough. The hunger of the eye grows by feeding. 

9. Only the brotherhood of evergreens — the pine, 
the cedar, the spruce, and the hemlock — refuse to join 
this universal revel. They wear their sober green 
through autumn and winter, as if they were set to keep 
open the path of summer through the whole year, and 

[Chap. IV.] AUTUMN. 115 

girdle all seasons together with a clasp of endless 

10. But in vain do they give solemn examples to 
the merry leaves which frolic with every breeze, that 
runs sweet riot in the glowing shades. Gay leaves 
will not be counselled, but will die bright and laugh- 
ing. But both together — the transfigured leaves of 
deciduous trees and the calm unchangeableness of ever- 
greens — how more beautiful are they than either 
alone ! The solemn pine brings color to the cheek of 
the beeches, and the scarlet and golden maples rest 
gracefully upon the dark foliage of the million-fin- 
gered pine. 

11. Lifted far above all harm of fowler or impedi- 
ment of mountain, wild fowl are steadily flying south- 
ward. The simple sight of them fills the imagination 
with pictures. They have all summer long called to 
each other from the reedy fens and wild oat-fields of 
the far north. Summer is already extinguished there. 

12. Winter is following their track, and marching 
steadily toward us. The spent flowers, the seared 
leaves, the thinning tree-tops, the morning frost, have 
borne witness of a change on earth ; and these caravans 
of the upper air confirm the tidings. Summer is gone ; 
winter is coming I 

13. The wind has risen to-day. It is not one of those 
gusty, playful winds that frolic with the trees. It is a 
wind high up in air, that moves steadily, with a solemn 


sound, as if it were the spirit of summer journey- 
ing past us ; and, impatient of delay, it does not 
stoop to the earth, but touches the tops of the trees, 
with a murmuring sound, sighing a sad farewell and 
passing on. 

14. Such days fill one with pleasant sadness. How 
sweet a pleasure is there in sadness ! It is not sorrow ; 
it is not despondency ; it is not gloom ! It is one of 
the moods of joy. At any rate I am very happy, and 
yet it is sober, and very sad happiness. It is the 
shadow of joy upon the soul ! I can reason about these 
changes. I can cover over the dying leaves with im- 
aginations as bright as their own hues ; and, by Chris- 
tian faith, transfigure the whole scene with a blessed 
vision of joyous dying and glorious resurrection. 

15. But what then ? Such thoughts glow like even- 
ing clouds, and not far beneath them are the evening 
twilights, into whose dusk they will soon melt away. 
And all communions, and all admirations, and all asso- 
ciations, celestial or terrene, come alike into a pensive 
sadness, that is even sweeter than our joy. It is the 
minor key of our thoughts. 

Henry Ward Beecher. 

Around this lovely valley rise 
The purple hills of Paradise. 

[Chap. IV.] MIDSTJMMEB. 117 

O, softly on yon banks of haze 

Her rosy face the Summer lays I 

Becalmed along the azure sky, 

The argosies of Cloudland lie, 

Whose shores, with many a shining rift, 

Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift. 


Through all the long midsummer day 
The meadow-sides are sweet with hay. 
I seek the coolest sheltered seat. 
Just where the field and forest meet, — 
Where grow the pine trees tall and bland. 
The ancient oaks austere and grand. 
And fringy roots and pebbles fret 
The ripples of the rivulet. 


I watch the mowers, as they go 
Through the tall grass a white-sleeved row. 
With even stroke their scythes they swing, 
In tune their merry whetstones ring. 
Behind, the nimble youngsters run. 
And toss the thick swaths in the sun. 
The cattle graze, while, warm and still. 
Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill. 
And bright, where summer breezes break, 
The green wheat crinkles like a lake. 


The butterfly and humble bee 

Come to the pleasant woods with me 5 


Quickly before me runs the quail, 
Her chickens skulk behind the rail ; 
High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, 
And the woodpecker pecks and flits, 
Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, 
The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, 
The swarming insects drone and hum, 
The partridge beats his throbbing drum, 
The squirrel leaps among the boughs. 
And chatters in his leafy house. 
The oriole flashes by ; and, look ! 
Into the mirror of the brook. 
Where the vain bluebird trims his coat, 
Two tiny feathers fall and float. 

As silently, as tenderly, 
The down of peace descends on me. 
O, this is peace ! I have no need 
Of friend to talk, of book to read • 
A dear Companion here abides ; 
Close to my thrilling heart He hides ; 
The holy silence is His voice : 
I lie and listen and rejoice. 

J. T. Trowbridge. 


That way look, my Infant, lo ! 
What a pretty baby-show I 


See the Kitten on the wall, 
Sporting with the leaves that fall, 
Withered leaves — one — two — and three — 
From the lofty elder-tree ! 


Through the calm and frosty air 
Of this morning briglit and fair, 
Eddying round and round they sink 
Slowly, slowly: one might think, 
From the motions that are made, 
Every little leaf conveyed 
Sylph or Faery hither tending, — 
To this lower world descending, 
Each invisible and mute, 
In his wavering parachute. 


— But the Kitten, how she starts, 
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts ! 
First at one, and then its fellow 
Just as light and just as yellow ; 
There are many now — now one — 
Now they stop and there are none. 
What intenseness of desire 
In her upward eye of lire I 


With a tiger-leap half-way 
Now she meets the coming prey, 
Lets it go as fast, and then 
Has it in her power again : 


Now she works with three or four, 
Like an Indian conjurer; 
Quick as he in feats of art, 
Far beyond in joy of heart. 

Were her antics played in the eye 
Of a thousand standers-by, 
Clapping hands with shout and stare, 
What would little Tabby care 
For the plaudits of the crowd ? 
Over happy to be proud, 
Over wealthy in the treasure 
Of her own exceeding pleasure I 


Such a light of gladness breaks, 

Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks, — < 

Spreads with such a living grace 

O'er my little Dora's face ; 

Yes, the sight so stirs and charms 

Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms. 

That almost I could repine 

That your transports are not mine, 

That I do not wholly fare 

Even as ye do, thoughtless pair I 

And I will have my careless season 

Spite of melancholy reason, 

Will walk through life in such a way 

That, when time brings on decay. 

Now and then I may possess 

Hours of perfect gladsomeness. 

[Chap. IV.] SUMMER STOEM. 121 


— Pleased by any random toy ; 

By a kitten's busy joy, 

Or an infant's laughing eye 

Sharing in the ecstasy ; 

I would fare like that or this, 

Find my wisdom in my bliss ; 

Keep the sprightly soul awake. 

And have faculties to take, 

Even from things by sorrow wrought, 

Matter for a jocund thought, 

Spite of care, and spite of grief. 

To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. 

William Wordsworth. 


Untremulous in the river clear. 
Toward the sky's image, hangs the imaged bridge ; 

So still the air that I can hear 
The slender clarion of the unseen midge ; 

Out of the stillness, with a gathering creep. 
Like rising wind in leaves, which now decreases, 
Now lulls, now swells, and all the while increases. 

The huddling trample of a drove of sheep 
Tilts the loose planks, and then as gradually ceases 

In dust on the other side ; life's emblem deep, 
A confused noise between two silences. 
Finding at last in dust precarious peace. 



On the wide marsh the purple-blossomed grasses 
Soak up the ounshine ; sleeps the brimming tide, 

Save when the wedge-shaped wake in silence passes 
Of some slow water-rat, whose sinuous glide 
Wavers the long green sedge's shade from side to 
side ; 

But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge, 

Climbs a great cloud edged with sun-whitened spray ; 

Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er its verge. 
And falling still it seems, and yet it climbs alway. 


Suddenly all the sky is hid 

As with the shutting of a lid, 
One by one great drops are falling 

Doubtful and slow, 
Down the pane they are crookedly crawling, 

And the wind breathes low ; 
Slowly the circles widen on the river. 

Widen and mingle, one and all ; 
Here and there the slenderer flowers shiver, 

Struck by an icy rain-drop's fall. 


Now on the hills I hear the thunder mutter, 

The wind is gathering in the west ; 
The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter, 

Then droop to a fitful rest ; 
Up from the stream with sluggish flap 
Struggles the gull and floats away ; 
Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder-clap, -^^ 

[Chap. IV.] , SUMMER STOEM. 12^ 

We shall not see the sun go down to-day : 
Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh, 

And tramples the grass with terrified feet, 
The startled river turns leaden and harsh. 

You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat. 


Look ! look ! that livid flash ! 
And instantly follows the rattling thunder, 
As if some cloud-crag, split asunder. 

Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash. 
On the Earth, which crouches in silence under ; 

And now a solid gray wall of rain 
Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile ; 

For a breath's space I see the blue wood again. 
And, ere the next heart-beat, the wind-hurled pile. 
That seemed but now a league aloof. 
Bursts crackling o'er the sun-parched roof ; 
Against the windows the storm comes dashing. 
Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing, 
The blue lightning flashes, 
The rapid hail clashes. 
The white waves are tumbling. 

And, in one baffled roar, 
Like the toothless sea mumbling 

A rock-bristled shore. 
The thunder is rumbling 
And crashing and crumbling, — . 
Will silence return never more ? 

Hush ! Still as death, 
The tempest holds his breath 


As from a sudden will ; 
The rain stops short, but from the eaves 
You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves. 
All is so bodingly still ; 

Again, now, now, again 
Plashes the rain in heavy gouts, 
The crinkled lightning 
Seems ever brightening, 
And loud and long 
Again the thunder shouts 
His battle-song, — 
One quivering flash, 
One wildering crash, 
Followed by silence dead and dull. 
As if the cloud, let go, 
Leapt bodily below 
To whelm the earth in one mad overthrow, 
And then a total lull. 


Gone, gone, so soon I 
No more my half-crazed fancy there 
Can shape a giant in the air. 
No more I see his streaming hair, 
The writhing portent of his form ; 
The pale and quiet moon 
Makes her calm forehead bare. 
And the last fragments of the storm, 
Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, 
Silent and few, are drifting over me. 

James Russell Lowell. 



All the world's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players : 
They have their exits, and their entrances ; 
And one man in his time plays many parts. 
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant. 
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. 
And then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel, 
And shining morning face, creeping, like snail, 
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, 
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad 
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then the soldier, 
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like a pard. 
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel. 
Seeking the bubble reputation 

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice, 
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd. 
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut. 
Full of wise saws and modern instances. 
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts 
Into the lean and slipper d pantaloon, 
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; 
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide 
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice. 
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all. 
That ends this strange, eventful history. 
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. 

William Shakespeare. 



Physical Culture 

How to attain health, strength, grace and beauty. Bodily 
education without the use of apparatus, i^thetic and psycho- 
physical culture. Thirty-eight beautiful illustrations prepared 
especially for this work. A handbook for student and teacher. 

Psycho Vox 


The voice as the natural reporter of the individual. The relation 

of the proper use of the voice to the nervous system and to health. 

Exercises for securing freedom and proper direction of tone, 

and for establishing right habits in the use of the voice. 

The Perfective Laws of Art 

In four volumes. A compilation of selections illustrating the 
sixteen perfective laws of art applied to oratory. This work is 
adapted to the use of all advanced students in expressive reading. 

Philosophy of Gesture 


The psychological and physiological basis and teaching princi- 
ples of the Emerson System of Expressive Physical Culture and 
Responsive Drill — Value of Art Models, /Esthetic Laws of 
Exprest^on explained, with illustrations drawn from classic art. 
" Educating the body to spontaneously express in a beautiful 
way the highest sentiments of the soul.** 

Six Lectures 

Lectures embracing advanced principles of education: 

The Power of the Ideal, The Law of Power in Oratory, 
How to read the Bible, The Relation of Art to Man, etc. 

A book of vital interest to students of Oratory, to teachers of 
all branches of education and to professional men. 

Address orders and communications to 



%0^. 86- 

V. 2 




3 1262 08866 9196